Colour Wheel
by Song of Grey Lemons
Summary: The story of seventeen years, as told in terms of hues and shades.
1. Year One: Champagne

**Colour Wheel**

**Disclaimer: **I solemnly swear I am not Suzanne Collins.

**A/N:** This story is Effie-centric and will continue for 18 chapters and an epilogue. Each chapter revolves around a colour, hence the title. It is not a romance story, though you can probably find eventual Effie/Haymitch (if you squint really, really hard and tilt your head to the side). It is dedicated to my favorite English teacher, Ms. S, Who encouraged me to write. Enjoy!

xXx

_Year One_

_Champagne_

It is raining and the wind chimes that hang outside of the store are dripping water. Her emerald eyes follow a few drops which burst on the tar of the walkway below. She turns back to the rusting door and takes a deep breath before pulling at the doorknob. It creaks open and she steps in. It's dark inside, lit only by one flickering light in the ceiling. The room is cluttered with odd objects. She can't help but wonder why on Earth she was sent here.

A woman enters the space. Her hair is the colour of sweet cream, as are her skin and clothes. She smiles, revealing perfect teeth.

"Hello. How may I help you?" Her voice is anything but fitting for her looks. It sounds like coarse sandpaper, rough and gravely.

"Um… I was told to come here. I need… help." She doesn't know what to say. Hastily, she adds, "You _are _a stylist, right?"

"_Was_ a stylist. What's your name, dear?" The woman stares calmly at her, her expression hardly changing.

"Effie. Effie Trinket," says Effie nervously, chewing the lipstick off of her bottom lip. She'd expected a polite, young, and cheery person in a brightly lit, tidy space. None of these expectations have been met.

"Oh, Miss Trinket! You're an escort, aren't you?" Effie nods. "First year?" Nods. "I'm Éclair. Pleased to meet you." The woman – Éclair – extends one hand on which all of the nails have been painted the colour of cream. Effie shakes it and briefly wonders if "Éclair" and the cream colouration are related. She decides, however, that it would be rude to ask.

"Now," says Éclair, "you placed an order for a wig and make-up. What colour were you interested in?" Effie thinks for a few moments. Then she shrugs. Éclair smiles. "You don't know." Effie nods politely and feels herself blushing. _How can I have come unprepared? _"That's alright," Éclair adds gently. "We'll figure it out." _Good._ "What are you wearing for the ceremony?" Effie shrugs again, this time less visibly. Éclair is obviously restraining a laugh.

"Okay then," she says, starting from scratch. "What approach are you working?" Effie stares at her feet.

"I thought only tributes had to work approaches. You know, for the interviews?" Effie mumbles sheepishly. This gets a laugh out of Éclair.

"Dear, I was a stylist for ten years," she says, pausing as though she is remembering some detail of her better, more glorious days. "What do they teach you in your escorting classes? How do you not know about approaches?"

"They teach us how to talk and how to report signs of rebellion. They never said anything about these… 'approaches'." Effie hangs her head even lower. _How did I not plan this?_ she thinks.

"Alright. What mood do you want to create? What do you want to be?" Éclair looks Effie in the eyes.

"They told us to act… festive. Like… a holiday. And… bubbly. Bright," the younger woman states. She bites her lip again, smearing more lipstick.

"Like champagne?" Effie nods in response. "Champagne is a colour, you know. How about we use it?" Nods. "Your wig will be champagne-coloured, as will your make-up and dress. We can draw bubbles on it, if you'd like."

"So, you'll make me a walking wine-glass?" Effie jokes feebly. Éclair laughs.

"Precisely. I'll take some measurements now, if you'd like." Without waiting for Effie's consent, she starts off towards a large wardrobe labeled "Supplies" in black ink. "And," Éclair adds in an offhand manner, "don't bite your lip like that. It'll mess up your make-up if you do it at the ceremony." Effie smiles.

xXx

Later, looking back, Effie will find that wearing wine was not a good idea and that she got very, very lucky about the choice of commentators. But now, all she can think about is her speech. She glances out the train's window. _The time has come_ – they zoom by a creek and – _to select one brave _– a majestic pine forest – _young man and woman for the honor_ – before exotic wilderness gives way – _of representing District 12 in the 58__th__ annual Hunger Games _– to dusty, grey train station.

They screech to a halt and the door opens. Effie gets up carefully, trying not to mess up her skirts (wrinkly bubbles will _not_ make a good impression). She steps out onto the platform and looks around. Everything is grey. The floor is made of stone that was probably, at some point, white, as were the walls. Dust coats everything, creating a strange film that tints everything grey. Effie finds it dull and very annoying, mostly because there is actually something _white_ and _pearly _under the layer of dreariness. She takes a deep breath and thinks back to escorting classes. Miss Bellini's voice rings through her head: "Remember, class, that these are the _Districts_. Keep an open mind, even if they aren't as civilized as us." _That's right, Effie, _she tells herself. _Keep an open mind._

She glances at her watch and finds that she still has two hours to, as she was told, get "acquainted" with the place. She considers it, but decides that it would seem very improper to go about, acting like a tourist. Instead, she decides to find the mentor and get "acquainted" with him. After all, she'll be working with him for the weeks to come and she finds it necessary for them to get together and begin planning now.

It takes her fifteen minutes to find anyone willing to give directions to an escort in a wig the colour of wine. It takes her another twenty minutes to get to the Victor's village, which is where she hopes to find this Mr. Haymitch Abernathy (she worries that he's already off, preparing the Reaping's location). She raps lightly on the wooden door to the house. Nobody answers. She tries again, harder, and finds that the door is open. She enters, nearly stepping on a broken bottle that lies on the threshold. _Keep an open mind._

"Mr. Abernathy!" Effie shouts, looking around. As her eyes adjust to the lack of light, she sees that the entire space is littered with broken glass. The same dust that coated the train station has taken over here, too. Effie shudders at how unkempt the place is. "Mr. Abernathy, where are you?" Silence is the only response. _Keep an open mind._ "Mr. Abernathy?"

"Who the hell are you?" Effie wheels around to the source of the slurred voice. A man is leaning against the frame of a door. Even from a few yards away, he reeks of alcohol, and, judging by the way he looks, it's much stronger than the stuff she's imitating.

"I could ask the same of you," she says, annoyed.

"I live here, kid," he announces, staggering over to the sink. He leans over and retches, causing Effie to stare in disgust.

"_You're_ Mr. Abernathy?" She asks in disbelief. He coughs a few times, then turns to look at her.

"Damn right, but call me Haymitch. You haven't answered me yet." As he speaks, he starts to sway violently and has to grab the marble counter top to steady himself.

"I'm Effie Trinket. The new escort," Effie huffs, still shocked. _How do I keep an open mind if _this_ is the mentor?_ Noticing his confused expression, she hastily adds, "Today's the Reaping. You know that, right?"

"It is, huh? What are you supposed to be?" He examines her and she groans in exasperation.

"I'm an _escort_. I told you that," she says, glancing at her watch. _One hour and fifteen minutes left._ He shakes his head.

"No, _what_ are you?" Haymitch inquires, gesturing at her dress and consequently throwing himself off balance.

"Champagne," Effie tells him. He seems to consider this for a moment before turning back to the sink for nearly a minute.

"Pity," he says, turning back to her. "You'd think that the Capitol would have enough resources to dress freaks like you in something stronger. Liquor, maybe, but champagne? Tell 'em to stop screwing around with the weak stuff." He laughs like it's a humorous joke told to an old friend. "Reaping day, huh? Gotta go get dressed. See you later, Effsie Trunkil."

He somehow manages to half-walk, half-collapse out of the room, holding onto the walls in an attempt to stay in a more or less vertical position, leaving Effie mute and dumbfounded, staring after him.

She can almost foresee the course of the Reaping. Yes, wearing champagne was a mistake. Wine makes it much more difficult to keep an open mind.

xXx


	2. Year Two: Teal

**Disclaimer:** Why, did you think I suddenly transformed? No, I'm still not Suzanne Collins, thanks for asking.

xXx

_Year Two_

_Teal_

xXx

"And then – you will not believe this – he goes, 'Tell 'em to stop screwing around with the weak stuff'!" Effie exclaims, laughing. Éclair snorts and drops the sewing needle to the floor.

"If you'd told me earlier, we could've gone for Irish whiskey amber," she says as she picks it up. Effie grins.

"No. I think teal works very well. Champagne was far too formal. I think that shades of blue and green are a lot more soothing and calm," she explains, watching Éclair's hands work at the fabric.

"And," Éclair adds, "let's face it, you need all the help you can get in that department." Effie sighs in aggravation.

"Éclair, what do you expect? I did what I was taught to do," she says. "Besides, they were all so… depressed. I needed to cheer them up! And I had to make up for the fact that the mentor showed up with his shirt on backwards and his head through a sleeve." Éclair snorts again. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," the stylist tells her. "It's just… wear the teal, okay? It was a brilliant idea. Maybe it'll compensate for your near-maniacal cheeriness."

"I will. And that's not the reason I chose teal."

"Oh?"

"The tributes, they were so worried, poor things. I want to help them relax," Effie explains sadly. "Do you know what I mean?" Éclair nods.

"To be a good escort, you're going to have to not get too attached to them. The same thing goes for stylists; I would know, since I was too "emotionally vulnerable" to keep the job," she sighs, flexing her fingers.

"Oh."

"Still, teal's a brilliant idea. It could help soothe Mr. Abernathy, too…"

xXx

This time, Effie knows the speech by heart. It's one less thing she has to worry about. Knowing Haymitch, however, there are bound to be more than enough problems without that.

The backstage area is covered with the same layer of grey dust that coats everything else in the District. She kicks at it with her teal stiletto toe, sending great clods of it into the air. Mayor Undersee looks around worriedly. Effie completely understands him; she is halfway between worry that Haymitch is missing and will not turn up and worry that Haymitch is missing and _will_ turn up. She is not exactly sure which she would prefer.

"Miss Trinket?" asks the mayor, starting towards the curtain. "We're going on air in three minutes." She nods and follows him onto the stage. The second she steps out onto the platform, Effie notices that the view has not changed. The children still stand there, waiting for her to pick two of their number. For one brief moment, she wonders what they see her as. _Probably an insane woman, hardly older than them, just waiting to condemn them_, she thinks. But she _can't_ think like that. She is honoring them, giving them a chance at fame and riches, an opportunity to escape from this sea of dull grey. She has to be _soothing_, and those thoughts will not help her stay _calm_.

Instead, she chooses to focus on her partner's absence. She hopes that he will either show up now, before they go live, or remain absent, in which case she can claim that he was working on a mentoring plan. Neither of the options is ideal, but both are significantly better than a drunken Haymitch stumbling onto the stage mid-show.

"1-2-3 and you're on air," a voice whispers from back stage. Mayor Undersee steps forward and begins to read a long, rather dreary speech about the history of Panem. Then, he reads off the names of the Victors, neither of which are present. Only one, she knows, has a reasonable excuse. Death.

"And now for the Reaping. Go ahead, Effie Trinket," he concludes, motioning her forward. As he takes his seat, Effie walks up to the podium.

"Happy Hunger Games," She announces brightly. _Remember, Effie, project your voice. Smile. That's it. Calm and soothing. Just like that, Effie. Calm and soothing._ "And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" Her eyes scan the crowd, taking in the almost-stoic eighteens and the visibly shaking twelves. "The time has come to select one brave young man and woman for the honor of representing District 12 in the 59th annual Hunger Games."

She hears an unmistakable cough from backstage and knows immediately that it's Haymitch. _Oh, no._ Her only hope is that he'll stay there for the rest of the Reaping. Nervously, she continues. "Ladies first!" She strides over to the glass sphere holding the female names. _Calm and soothing. Think 'teal.' _She digs her fingers deep into the bowl and hopes that she isn't picking a twelve-year-old. The poor things are scared half to death already. She plucks a slip up and marches back.

"Tulip Gregory!" she calls out, looking around. There is a stir in a clump of seventeens, and a tall blonde girl emerges. She is clearly trying to stay confident as she walks to the stage, head held high. _Remember, be calm and soothing_, Effie tells herself as she helps the girl up onto the platform.

"And now, for the boys!" she trills into the microphone, but the sound of her voice cannot override the hacking coughs coming from backstage. _Don't bite your lip, or Éclair will kill you. Be calm and soothing. That's right._

"Nichalos Riper!" she calls out, trying her hardest to ignore the fact that the coughing is becoming louder and louder. Suddenly, Haymitch stumbles onto the stage, still coughing (though a more proper term might have been choking), and collapses in his designated seat.

She finds that it is very difficult to stay _calm_ and _soothing_ when what she wants most is to scream her head off at Haymitch Abernathy, but she more or less maintains her composure as she helps fifteen-year-old Nichalos onto the stage.

"Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" she practically screams, trying to be heard over the awful hacking. Smiling politely at the children, she excuses herself and heads backstage.

Even if it does make her _calmer_ and more _soothing_, teal does not help Effie Trinket keep an open mind. Especially around Haymitch.

xXx


	3. Year Three: Lavender

**Disclaimer:** No luck, still not Ms. Collins.

**A/N:** Please review. I beg you.

xXx

_Year Three_

_Lavender_

xXx

"Why lavender, of all the colours out there?" Éclair is kneeling next to Effie, measuring her waist. Effie shrugs nonchalantly.

"It's pretty. It's very peaceful," she responds, running a hand through her light brown hair.

"_Peaceful?_ Effie, we're sending them in to kill each other! You have to admit, the idea of wearing anything _peaceful_ is ridiculous," Éclair says, with a sigh. "Come on. There has to be some other reason."

"Well, it's calm and soothing, like teal," Effie suggests.

"Yeah, and we all know how well that turned out."

"Well, I thought that it would remind the tributes of home. A bit. Here, in the Capitol," says Effie, watching Éclair scrawl some numbers onto her clipboard.

"Anything else?" Effie forces herself not to bite at her lip as she responds.

"And… Haymitch mentioned that he particularly hates it." Éclair bursts out laughing, nearly dropping her clipboard.

"You really hate him, don't you?" She questions.

"Éclair, he doesn't even try to help them! He just drinks and acts like they should just get over any hopes of surviving!" Effie exclaims in self-defense. Éclair smiles, half-sadly.

"He probably just remembers his own Games. I certainly do," she says, tucking a loose strand of cream-coloured hair behind her ear.

"You might be right, but I intend to talk to him. It's not fair that the poor Twelve children don't stand a chance because of him," Effie mutters indignantly. Her stylist seems to consider this.

"Alright, but you might want to keep the lavender in check. Angering Haymitch is not going to help your cause," she says cautiously, starting to unfold a length of pale purple fabric.

"Okay, I'll be careful," Effie tells Éclair, trying to push the Reaping incident of last year out of her memory. That, of all things won't help her be _calm_ or _soothing_, nor will it help her _keep an open mind_.

xXx

"Welcome to the Train of Death," Haymitch announces darkly as he enters the dining car where Effie is sitting across from the tributes. She plasters a smile onto her face.

"Why, hello, Haymitch. We were hoping that you could give us some advice," she says, her eyes following him as he heads over to the cabinet in which he has stashed his bottles. He stops for a few moments and turns back to the others. His eyes take in Effie's fake smile, Grove's hopeful expression, and the determination in Wren's eyes. He briefly considers teaching them all that he knows. Grove's old enough, strong enough. Even Wren, who is built like the small, dainty bird she was named after could stand a chance. But no, they won't win, and it's only going to hurt them if he gets their hopes up. It'll only add two more faces to the club of the dead that meets in his head whenever he is even remotely sober. So no, it won't do.

"Fine. You ready?" They nod, and a spark seems to ignite in the eyes of both Wren and Grove.

"Enjoy the remainder of your lives," he says and looks away, not wanting to watch the spark extinguished. He grabs a bottle, gripping the glass container of comfort, and walks out of the room.

Effie and the tributes sit in total silence for a few seconds. Then, she rises, her face entirely taken over by a grim determination, politely excuses herself, and leaves the car. She half-runs after the mentor, which, she finds, is rather difficult in high heels. When she finally catches up, she grabs his arm and pulls him to a halt. He wheels around and stares at her, obviously waiting for an explanation.

"Why on Earth did you just do that?" she yells, looking into his eyes. "Why didn't you help them? They're strong enough! They've got a chance, Haymitch! Why can't you teach them? Do you have to spend more time with your drinks than with the living _people _who _die_ because of us every year? You're a worthless drunk, Haymitch Abernathy, and you know it!" She stands still, shaking from the anger, breathing hard. Even through her powder, he can see that her face is flushed red from screaming. He takes a deep breath.

"Because, Trinket," he growls, "they can't win. They're gonna die, so why not tell the truth? They'll know it themselves when they see the Careers. They're _dead_, Trinket, as good as _dead_. They won't make past the bloodbath, and I won't raise them like animals for slaughter! They've got an icicle's chance in hell of making it out of there whether I help or not.

Do you know why I drink? Do you? You wouldn't get it, Trinket, cause you've never been forced to kill someone. Because, you know, they never leave you. They stare at you forever and scorn you, calling for your blood. Could you live with that? Could you, Trinket? Why do you think I drink? Because I _like _it? I hate it, but you can't stop once you start. Their damn faces sit in my head and watch me. I don't see them if I drink. Does that make any sense? I want to _forget_, Trinket! I'm sick of all the dead faces stuck in my brain! But, of course, you wouldn't get that. You're just a silly little escort, and I'm a screwed up drunk!"

With those last words still echoing through the hall, he storms off, his breath coming in shuddering gasps. A door slams; the vibrations run through the walls.

Effie stands there, trying desperately to process everything he's said to her. Because, if she understands it properly, Haymitch isn't just a worthless drunk. He's a lot more complicated than that.

And, suddenly, Effie feels guilty for wearing lavender and for not keeping an open mind.

xXx


	4. Year Four: Peach

**Disclaimer:** It's basic math: 'Song of Grey Lemons' is not equal to 'Suzanne Collins'.

**A/N:** Wow. Virtual cookies go out to **illyna**, **J**, **TheGirlWhoWasOnFire21**, **DCdreamer55, **and **The Curse of Normality** for reviewing, as well as to everyone who favorited/alerted. Thanks, and keep up the trend :).

xXx

_Year Four_

_Peach_

xXx

Éclair smiles, her perfect-cream teeth glistening in the faint glow of the newly-repaired light bulb. The workshop is still very dimly lit, but the flickering light is no longer distracting. "Why do you want a 'kind, apologetic colour'?" she questions, looking at Effie.

"Because… I insulted him. I was... cruel. I want to help him, but until I can, I'll just dress… apologetically," she sighs, trying her very hardest not to bite her lip. Éclair raises her eyebrows.

"You're wearing a kind, apologetic colour… for _Haymitch_? I thought you hated him!" she says in disbelief, though Effie can almost hear a kind of 'I told you so' undertone.

"Well, he's more than what I thought he was. He's a lot more… complicated," she explains, dismissing the possibility of said undertone.

"Ah. And what should the public make of your choice?" Éclair inquires, getting out her booklet of fabric tints and casually flipping through.

"That I'm being kind and helpful. They don't need to know to whom." Éclair nods slowly.

"How about this?" the stylist points to a pretty square labeled "peach". Effie looks at it closely and then smiles.

"I like it. I like it a lot," she says, stroking the dyed paper. Éclair smiles gently, then strides over to the supply closet.

` "Are you at all afraid that the Capitol will interpret your colour as rebellious?" she asks cautiously. Effie nearly snorts at the preposterous idea.

"Why on Earth would they?" she asks, smiling broadly.

"It could look like you're apologizing to the Districts for picking their names for the honor of killing each other," suggests Éclair.

"A colour can hardly come across as rebellious, 'Clair. What you just said, on the other hand…" Effie laughs and Éclair joins in.

"Effie, I'm only saying this to help you."

"Thank you for your concern. I'll try not to act apologetic on camera, okay?" she says. Éclair nods and begins to cut fabric, her scissors snipping at a tapestry of apologies.

Meanwhile, Effie wonders about what Éclair told her and is curious if any of it came from personal experience.

xXx

They're both dead three days into the Games, but Haymitch and Effie can't go home. They have to attend the Crowning of the Victor, so they are stuck aimlessly wandering the Capitol streets. Haymitch spends the time getting acquainted with the local bars and Effie tries to organize to-do lists for both of them. It takes her mind off of the Games, and all of the death. Both of them avoid much contact with people, mainly because everyone is seeking to offer their condolences and they find it odd to accept them when, really, the ones people should feel sorry for are the dead tributes.

After four days of this routine, on three of which Effie finds her District partner unable to support his own weight and has to quite literally drag him to her home and get him to regain consciousness before sending him back to the Mentor Center where he is staying, Effie decides that there has to be some sort of change. She figures that she might as well go and try to fulfill her hope of helping Haymitch.

She spends a few hours looking for an Alcohol support group. At last, she comes across something called "the Alcohol Assistance Agency", which is written in fancy blue script on a pretty little business card. It seems like all she could have hoped for, so she goes there on the fifth day for a short consultation session.

The secretary is a smiley, bright woman dressed in a fairly creepy shade of electric blue. She shows Effie, who's trying to avoid people's recognition and has removed the peach and changed her make-up colour, the way into the visitation office and sits her down, telling her that the doctor will be right with her. Sunlight comes in through the open sky light, reflecting off the laminated surfaces of the posters around the room; most of the say some ridiculous slogan along the lines of "don't drink, your ship will sink" in big bold lettering. All appears to be going fine. The doctor comes in, a stocky woman dressed in an alarming shade of purple, and sits down across from Effie. She bats her eyelashes a few times, then smiles.

"How may I help you, dear?" she asks in a squeak of a voice that virtually nothing larger than a mouse should be using.

"A…" she pauses, unsure of exactly what word she ought to use to describe Haymitch. "Friend of mine is, um, drinking a bit too much." She knows that it's the understatement of the century, but chooses not to explain.

"I see. And what would you like me to do about your friend?" the doctor tilts her head to the side, smiling.

"I'd like some advice. How do I interact with him?" Effie questions, searching the woman's face.

"Well, it's impossible to interact with an alcoholic. Stay away from him," she responds. Effie sighs.

"I can't exactly stay away from him."

"Well, maybe you should consider ending the relationship," the doctor tells her sadly, shaking her head in pity.

"I'm sorry? I don't believe I ever said anything about a relationship," Effie says, biting her lip. She decides that it is a very good thing that Éclair can't see her.

"Love cannot exist without compassion from both people," the woman states, handing Effie a brochure which reads "Family Life and Alcoholism: The Beautiful Road to Recovery". She nearly chokes.

"Um… can I help him get better?" she asks, struggling to keep her jaw from falling.

"You must remember the three C's," sighs the woman. Effie looks confused. "You didn't cause it, you can't cure it, and no one can control it," she adds.

"But isn't there something I could do?" Effie inquires, taken aback by the doctor's pessimism. The woman pats her hand reassuringly.

"Don't you worry. I fell in love with an alcoholic, too. It takes time, but you will eventually find that he is just another worthless drunk. You will be destroyed if you let yourself fall even deeper into the web of love," she simpers, wiping away an invisible tear with her free hand. Effie is very happy for the make-up she's wearing because she can feel herself reddening, blushing vividly under a layer of powder. _I am _not_ in love with him!_

"But… isn't there anything that can help?" she asks, hoping to at least assist Haymitch a little bit. She's mad at herself for asking because it only furthers the impression that she cares, but she knows that Haymitch Abernathy is not just another worthless drunk and she just has to find out.

"Do you want to know the truth?" Effie nods, entranced.

"I don't know what to do, nor do I care." With those words, the doctor walks out of the room. A very startled and annoyed Effie remains, staring at a small brochure.

xXx


	5. Year Five: Pale Chartreuse

**Disclaimer:** I'm not her. She's not me. End of story.

**A/N:** Virtual ice-cream cones go to **TheGirlWhoWasOnFire21**, **Shikabane-Mai**, and **The Curse of Normality** for reviewing, as well as to all favoriters and/or alerters. Review/subscribe/favorite for next chapter's virtual treat!

xXx

_Year Five_

_Pale Chartreuse_

xXx

"That's right. Nice; simplistic; pleasant. Just me. Nothing added in, not faked. Natural,"Effie explains.

"Okay then. Pale chartreuse it is," Éclair grins. Her colouration has not changed in the slightest over the past few years, but she has added a large, cream-coloured flower to her hair. There is a pause in the conversation as she stretches a length of fabric out on the table.

"Um, Éclair?" Effie asks her, refraining from biting her lip. The stylist looks up.

"Yes?"

"What you told me last year about the rebellious qualities of colours, how did you know that?" Éclair smiles gently, oddly.

"There are certain things one picks up on, having been a stylist." There is a lengthy silence, in which the only sound is that of a pair of scissors _snip-snip-snip_ping the fabric.

"So, how…?" Effie watches her intently.

"A friend of mine, um, dressed the District 4 tributes in ice and then explained that icy water can't serve anyone. He… disappeared. The year after that, I made up an excuse about my little sister being very sick and took a year's leave. They had to find a replacement. And they decided to keep her. Which is wonderful, really," Éclair gives something between a sigh and a muffled sob before smiling again and continuing her work. The two of them sit in awkward silence for a minute or so before Éclair chooses to further the discussion. "So, have you found help for Haymitch?"

Effie snorts. "If I keep find the sort of help that I came across, I'm the one who going to need counseling."

"That bad, huh?" Éclair questions, a ghost of a laugh playing on her lips.

"Definitely. The discussion ended with the doctor telling me that she didn't know or care," the younger woman states. Éclair's eyebrows shoot upwards in an odd sort of arc. "And she, um, assumed that I was in love with Haymitch." Here, Éclair's bursts out laughing, practically doubling over.

"You?" she chokes out. Effie huffs.

"She _obviously_ doesn't realize that it's possible to be helpful without being in love!"

Éclair shrugs and says, "Well, she's the classic Capitol woman: lives for romance, doesn't care about mere friends or acquaintances." Effie seems to consider this.

"Where in the spectrum does that leave me?"

"On the opposite side of the colour wheel. You're different, Effie. You understand more. To them, Haymitch is just another worthless drunkard and the tributes are a truckload of circus animals. To you, Haymitch is a complex person, however aggravating he may be, and, no matter how hard you try, you can't accept that the tributes are entertainment. It's getting harder, isn't it?" Éclair eyes Effie, who nods slowly.

"It is." There is another pause, though it is far longer.

xXx

It is, as some people discover the hard way, rather unpleasant to be woken up by way of being drenched in cold water. It is, she decides, inevitable. She's spent the last fifteen minutes shaking him, screaming at him, and doing everything else that came to mind. It could have probably woken a dead body, but, unfortunately, Haymitch is not one of those. _Nothing_ can wake his from his drunken slumbers.

She tries to do it quickly, but the basin is very heavy and the water very cold. She briefly pauses before dumping it over his head.

The result is instantaneous. He leaps up and snarls at her. "Who the hell are you?" She smiles, remembering their first meeting.

"Effie, the escort. Come on, it's Reaping day," she says, her smile vanishing as she sees his confusion.

"I don't care. I'm not going," he mumbles, trying to crawl back into bed. She swiftly steps to the side and blocks his path.

"Yes, you are. They'll have your head if you stay here." He sighs, clearly understanding that her comment is true.

"Fine." He rises and walks towards the bathroom. She notices that he is staggering more than usual. She brushes the thought away, not even wanting to consider how much he'll be drinking when the first tribute dies. She thinks back to the pamphlet that she got last year. _"Over time, alcohol destroys the liver, leading to possible cirrhosis, and, in severe cases, premature death."_

The very idea scares her. _Premature death._ No. She won't let him die like this. Not from this self-inflicted prison of liquor. She can't. The tributes need a mentor and he's all that they've got. And, no matter how much she avoids it, she needs him, too. She needs someone else there with her in the Control complex, someone who knows the nature of these Games. And there is only one person who fits the job. Him. _Premature death is not an option_. She has to keep him alive; she decides to find some medicine in the year to come, to mix it into his food the next time the Games come around.

He re-enters the room, having somehow succeeded in dressing himself more or less acceptably. Still, he's drifting towards 'less,' what with his messy hair and lopsided shirt. She walks up to him and straightens it, commenting on how wrong he looks. Some sort of understanding and an ambition to keep someone alive, she decides, don't necessarily mean not criticizing their every action. Good. It seems to be some sort of constant in their lives.

"So, the Reaping, huh?" he eyes her dress warily but seems to relax upon noticing the normality of the hue. "Why the pleasant colour?"

She shrugs, then straightens her back. "Come on. We have to go." He nods.

Anyone watching the Victor's Village on the Reaping day of the 62nd Hunger Games would have witnessed a very rare spectacle: a small Capitol escort and the only surviving District 12 victor walking (or staggering slightly) towards the Reaping stage, neither of them arguing, fighting, or looking aggravated.

xXx


	6. Year Six: Silver

**Disclaimer:** I failed to transform into the fantastic author who created these characters.

**A/N**: Virtual chocolate is sent out to anyone who alerted/favorited and to **LadyNobleSong**, **allonsysilvertongue**, and **TheGirlWhoWasOnFire21** for their reviews. Thank you very much!

xXx

_Year Six_

_Silver_

xXx

"I look like an old lady!" Effie exclaims indignantly, looking at her reflection in a dusty, cracked mirror of Éclair's.

"You don't. You look gorgeous," the stylist says calmly, almost proudly.

"I _do_ look old. I mean, my hair is grey. I look ancient!" Effie huffs, displeasure etched into her features. Éclair sighs.

"You specifically told me to use a desensitized, cold colour. What did you expect, fuchsia?" she points out, fixing the wig, which has tilted to the side slightly. Effie rolls her eyes but has to nod in agreement. It's true.

"Fine. Do you think it'll work?" She runs a hand over the metallic fabric, smooth to the touch.

"I think so. If you feel like you're going to break down, just stare at the colour you're wearing and tell yourself to be cold and desensitized. Okay?" Éclair steps back and admires her work. Effie nods.

"Okay, I will. But… how do you know that it works?" she asks, look doubtful.

"I've had to use that trick so many times before," Éclair says softly, looking off just beyond the ceiling light that has taken up flickering once again. "When a tribute died, I – I almost broke. My biggest problem was that I was emotionally vulnerable. I had to come up with something. And – I used colours. It doesn't entirely help, but at least it's a little bit."

They stand in silence for a few minutes, Effie trying to get used to her silver and Éclair trying to remember something from her days of fame.

"So," Effie says, finding the quiet uncomfortable, "you remember Haymitch's Games?" Éclair seems to snap out of her trance.

"Oh, yes. The Games, the fact that I had to dress twice the usual tributes, the fact that all of them died…" she trails off, staring almost angrily at the ground.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to –" Effie starts to say. Éclair cuts her off.

"It's fine. It was just my least favorite year. By far. Anyway, what were you saying?" There's a short pause before Effie continues.

"Well, what did you think of Haymitch?" Éclair shrugs, then smiles.

"No idea, really. He seemed strong, witty. But he wasn't… extraordinary," she says, tearing her eyes away from the ground.

"So… what was he like?"

"Um… brave, determined to win. Capable. And tragic." Effie looks confused.

"Tragic? How?" she asks her stylist. Éclair sighs.

"They killed his friends and family a few weeks after he won." Éclair slowly walks over to the mirror, folds it up, and puts it into the supply closet. Effie stands there, struck dumb, watching her.

"Oh. Oh. I… didn't know…" she mumbles under her breath, suddenly feeling nothing but pity for this man. She almost understands the drinking now. Oh, she dislikes him and he annoys her to no end, but she has to respect him for holding up, even if it is with the help of a certain substance. Éclair's eyes find hers and they stare at each other for a few moments, emerald green and very creamy coffee.

"It was two years before I left the Games." Effie nods, then removes her wig and unpins her hair. She changes into a casual dress and clips in some odd-looking hair extensions (she doesn't specifically enjoy wearing wigs, as they're thick and retain heat a bit too well, but to go about with perfectly natural hair is a crime against fashion in the Capitol). She pauses, thinking about Haymitch and how she really does have to get that medicine. She wonders about how it has to feel to loose everyone you love and suddenly feels… guilty. For the dresses, for the hair, for the make-up. Quickly, she removes two of the hair extensions, leaving only a thin, silvery one. It feels so right to have them out, to take off the streaks of insulting colour.

She looks down at her hand to see the clips that have just parted with her hair. It's curious, really, the colours that she has removed, but it doesn't surprise her. Both of them are lavender.

xXx

_But – but Jessa was special!_ Something screams in Effie's head, before correcting itself. _No,_ 'is'._ Jessa is alive. _

Another voice calls for Effie's attention. _It'll be _'was'_ soon enough_, it mutters snidely, but she forces herself to kick the thought away because it's wrong, it has to be wrong, it just _has to be wrong, wrong, wrong_... but it isn't. Charming, people-loving Jessa, the only one of them Haymitch even _bothered_ to help – and help he did, causing Effie to think that the medicines that she's secretly been giving him are working at last – in all these years, the only one who stood a chance, lying in the grass of an Arena…

In all reality, it is the fault of the rock. It tripped her and led to her downfall. She isn't dead yet, but Tiger's strong fingers are squeezing at her throat, pressing her to the ground. _Tiger._ _The ferocious creature that stalks that night, fiery stripes ablaze and pure white fangs glinting in the jungle light. An experienced killer complete with retractable claws. But this Tiger is not a wild animal; he is a child forced to kill other children._ It's not as though she's struggling physically; she's lying there, almost peacefully, dying.

Jessa tilts her head ever so slightly, as if to look at the setting sun. It catches her iris, soft orange reflecting off of ashy grey and all Effie can see is how beautiful it is, how it shouldn't be nearly so _lovely_ because it is the colour of Jessa's death, but, oh, how _beautiful_ that combination, that colour, that elegant sliver of light in a landscape of horror is.

It is that glint that causes Effie to break down. She can feel tears stinging at her eyes, but she can't cry here, not in this Control Room. She looks down at the hem of her skirt. The shining, metallic silver is as cold and emotionless as ever. And, suddenly, Effie hates it for being so… normal when Jessa is dying.

She catches the eye of the only person in the room who she knows will understand her, but Haymitch isn't looking at her, or anyone, for that matter. He's clutching a glass of something, staring at the wall, but she doesn't need to see his face to know that the expression he is wearing is one of pain.

xXx

"Hey." Her voice is flat and hoarse when she speaks, her face void of expression. One could almost think her _cold_ and _desensitized_, were it not for the streaks of mascara that run, smudged down her cheeks, were it not for the trails in her blush that were clearly made by tears…

"Hey," he responds in a similar manner. "What are you doing here?" She shrugs slightly, trying to think of an answer that would be acceptable.

"Checking on you, I suppose," she finally tells him, sitting down in a folding chair near the bed. It creaks, and she flinches. "So… what have you been… uh… doing?" It's not much of a question, really, since they both know the answer.

"Well, laying here, watching the nurses run in circles, trying to stay on schedule," he says quietly, gesturing around the room with his IV-less arm. "What about you?"

_Let's see, crying my eyes out over Jessa, just like you've been wanting to, dragging you to the stupid hospital because you drank yourself into a stupor, worrying about _you_, of all people,_ she thinks, but none of the above leave her mouth. "Just… existing," she mumbles. He nods, and they sit in a silence which she quickly decides to break. "Haymitch, why did you drink all of that? You knew you couldn't stomach it, right?"

He nods. "Yeah, I guess. I've become an expert of sorts." His tone is dry, and the attempt at humor comes across as dark and false. She shakes her head.

"Come on, Haymitch, you knew that it was too much. Why'd you drink it? Were you trying to kill yourself or something?" She doesn't mean the question seriously, but, when it leaves her mouth, it rings true. Far too true…

"No, not really. It's just… Jessa… I really thought that I could bring her home. So… I tried to numb the pain. Unfortunately, Dionysus left my prayer unanswered," he says, and she doesn't know if she should laugh or cry or scream or stay silent.

"Oh, Haymitch," she whispers. He looks away, but not fast enough for her to miss that same pained expression as it flickers across his eyes again. "You know, I'm glad you didn't succeed," she states firmly, and he shakes his head. "What if you ended up in a coma or something? You shouldn't be trying to entirely desensitize yourself over just…" she trails off, unsure of what she means to say next. He finishes for her.

"Just one dead little girl?" His voice is not accusing, not sharp or cutting. It's just a quiet statement that unnerves her. Is that really what crossed her mind? She shudders. _No. It can't be._

"Haymitch…" Again, she has no idea how to finish. She takes a deep breath, willing herself to tell him that she never meant that, that she's relieved that he's alive, that she, too, wanted to vanish after that bit of orange-grey faded away forever, that, that that… the list goes on and on. "For the sake of the children of District Twelve, try to stay alive."

As she leaves the hospital that night, Effie notices for the first time that tears, perhaps the least desensitized substance on Earth, are silvery.

xXx


	7. Year Seven: Magenta

**Disclaimer:** It has not changed. It probably never will.

**A/N:** Hello again. Let us begin with an apology. Here it goes: I am sorry for not updating for so long. I got really tied up and couldn't post. Sorry. Anyway, a serving of lemon tart has been designated for all reviewers/alerters, **allonsysilvertongue, **and **The Curse of Normality**. Thanks!

xXx

_Year Seven_

_Magenta_

xXx

It's raining again.

Effie thinks back to her first year with Éclair and remembers the drops of water falling from the chimes that hung outside of the workshop, remembers the creak of the rusty door. The chimes are long gone now, replaced by new ones that are made out of some sort of pearly shell and the door has been oiled and no longer creaks. But water still falls from the chimes like tears, bursting on the now-cobblestone-paved walkway below. She sighs, then opens the door.

Éclair is already waiting for her, sitting in a chair that stands by a table on which all sorts of colour samples have been laid out. She motions Effie over to her.

"So, are you ready?" she asks, rising from her chair and leading her friend and client over to the selection of fabrics. "Choose wisely. What approach are you working?" Effie smiles, remembering how she had responded seven years ago. This time, she has a prepared answer.

"I want to draw attention to myself. Or, more accurately, away from the children," she tells the stylist, who raises her eyebrows.

"Why?"

"I'm sick of them showing the children's faces so much at the Reaping. It creates targets for the other tributes. If I wear something extremely bright, or glittery, or eccentric, we have a chance of getting the cameras on me, not them." They stand there for a few seconds, Effie looking at colours and Éclair thinking. Then, she smiles.

"That may be the wisest thing I've ever heard an escort say," she announces, looking at Effie with a sort of pride. "It'll be a challenge to make you odd enough, but I think we'll manage. Won't we?" Effie gives Éclair a reassuring nod. "Alright, we'll go for an especially vivid colour. Effie picks up a pretty, almost painfully bright card labeled 'magenta.'

"How's this?" she asks, bringing it up to the light. Éclair nods.

"Good. It's not _that_ bright, but I think it'll do."

xXx

Walking is actually a fairly difficult task, mechanically speaking. You have to lift the entire weight of your leg using just a few muscles, move it forward in the air while balancing on one foot, and then set it down on the ground gently and smoothly.

High heels do nothing to improve the situation.

Effie's never walked in heels this high. Or this stiff. Or this bright. But it doesn't matter, because she's onstage now, because she can't mess up anyway. Instead, she just grins and tries to look cheerful, remembering Éclair's final words to her: "Act the magenta." _Right. Be bright and cheery. Do everything that you've worked out. Just keep going_.

Today, there is no threat of Haymitch stumbling onto the stage, mostly because he's already in his chair. He's silent, too, leading Effie to suspect that he's fallen asleep. Not that it matters; the quieter he is, the better.

She somehow manages to walk all the way to the podium without falling. _Good, Effie. Now, act the magenta._ She takes a deep breath before forcing her mouth into a wide smile. She's convinced that she looks like a jack-o-lantern, showing all of her teeth.

"Welcome, welcome!" she calls, the microphone magnifying her voice and dispersing it through the streets. "Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" She looks around. This year, even the eighteens look genuinely startled. Well, no wonder. She's hardly being _calm_ or _soothing_.

"Ladies first!" she strides over the sphere holding the female names, completing the motion with a pirouette that, for three-inch heels, is actually fairly graceful. The crowd looks bewildered. _Good. The cameras will stay on me. _"Orial Hackett!" _Please don't be twelve, Orial. _

A girl, thirteen, emerges from the crowd and walks to the stage. She's fighting to keep a straight face and failing to do so. One can make out the pure terror in those pale eyes. She's mounting the stage before Effie even has a chance to think of a distraction from the cameras. Improvisation is the only way out now. _Here we go._ "Well, we can't forget our male tribute, can we?" She knows that she nearly screaming now, but it doesn't matter. She twirls again, sending streams of ribbons into the air. Her hand digs deep into the sphere, trying to grab the name of someone who can win. Maybe.

"Brant Ferris!" She calls out, scanning the crowd with her eyes. A twelve-year-old is slowly moving towards the stage. Holding back tears of fear and sorrow. _Oh, my god._ But Effie can't stop now. There's no going back. "Wow! What an _interesting_ Reaping!" she shouts, stressing the word "interesting" and not even bothering to keep the edge of madness from creeping into her voice. Recorded, it will sound like happiness.

"Happy Hunger Games," she concludes, "and may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" With a final spin and a wave, she takes the tributes' hands and leads them away from the cameras. They walk off into the Justice building, and she heads backstage, taking a slight detour to drag Haymitch, chair and all, away with her.

In the darkness behind the curtain, where she knows no one will see her, she lets a tear fall down her cheek. She knows that she can still be heard, so she makes no noise as she wakes Haymitch. He, on the other hand, does.

"What the – oh, it's you! You were ridiculous up there! What the hell was up the twirling and the – hey, Effie! Effie, why are you –" She cuts him off, pressing her hand to his mouth in an attempt to silence him. Nobody needs to know that she's crying. Nobody.

"Shut up," she hisses. "We're backstage!" There's a pause. He nods, which she takes as a sign to continue. "Did you see tributes?" He shakes his head.

"I saw you. Then I fell asleep."

"We got a thirteen and a twelve." She stares at him, watching the change in his expression.

"A thirteen… and a twelve?" It's obvious that he's hoping that he just misheard something. She sighs and nods; that's when he understands that two more people will haunt his dreams.

"What are we going to do?" she asks him, biting her lip. He shrugs sadly.

"Doesn't look there's much we can do, really. You stock up on tissues, I stock up on alcohol. There's no other way out." With that, he hands her a handkerchief and stumbles away in search of a bottle.

xXx


	8. Year Eight: Sapphire Blue

**Disclaimer: **If I owned The Hunger Games… oh, never mind. I don't, anyway.

**A/N:** And I'm… back! A wonderful fondue has been prepared for everyone who favorited or alerted, as well **Aureleis** and **The Curse of Normality **for their reviews. Also, special thanks to **The Curse of Normality** for letting me borrow Gyana, the District Three escort for this chapter. Where would I be without you, Cursie? :)

xXx

_Year Eight_

_Sapphire Blue_

xXx

"Effie, come on. Admit it. You were no good," says Éclair. Effie shrugs, defeated.

"Okay, fine. I… am bad at acting," she says before adding, "But, 'Clair, I didn't have any time to think about it! It was all improvisation!" Éclair sighs.

"Well, we need to work on your improvisation skills, then. Honestly, Effie, I don't know if you have any theatrical potential, but we can try to develop whatever you have," Éclair says. Effie shakes her head.

"It's no use. I'll never be able to get good, and certainly not before the next Reaping," she mutters sadly. Éclair seems to brighten.

"Well, we'll always have my costumes, right? Those will buy some time to learn, because they'll keep the audience enthralled," says Éclair. Effie nods.

"So… what colour are we trying this time around?" Effie asks, breaking the quiet. Éclair smiles mischievously.

"You'll find out. It's a surprise."

"Oh?" Effie raises her eyebrows, craning her neck to catch a glimpse of Éclair's sketchbook. The stylist closes it.

"You will just have to wait." Effie nods, but rolls her eyes, too. "Let's just say… I'm hoping to keep those cameras glued on you no matter what comes out of your mouth," the stylist adds. Effie grins.

"Yeah, that could help." The two of them laugh.

"So, how are you getting on with Haymitch?" Éclair inquires, changing the subject. Effie thinks.

"Well… I guess we've made an agreement to try and help any tributes that have some potential – not like there are plenty of those – and avoid each other as much as possible to prevent conflict. I'm pretty happy with the arrangement."

"Well, at least you aren't biting each other's heads off," Éclair states matter-of-factly. Effie considers this, then shrugs in agreement.

"So, did you always wear cream?" Effie asks, feeling that the pause has grown uncomfortably long. Éclair seems to calculate something.

"Well, it is my natural skin, hair, and eye colour. The clothes I added, but everything else was like that initially," she says.

"So you're… unadorned."

"Well, I came adorned, didn't I? I just don't enhance that and let people think that I do it with make-up."

"Did your parents name you because of…?" Effie trails off, knowing that Éclair has already understood.

"No. My name isn't really Éclair. Not _officially_, anyway. I'm Clairvoyance," she says, pronouncing the name with a sort of disgust. Effie's jaw literally drops. "I know. Even my _parents_ knew it was dumb. They called me 'Éclair' instead. It sort of stuck, so I registered as a stylist as Éclair. The cream only helped," she adds, grinning and revealing teeth of the said colour.

"Well, Clairvoyance, will you show me your design?" Effie questions teasingly, giggling.

"When the time comes, Effiliance, I shall," responds the stylist, playful malice creeping into her voice.

"I'm _not_ Effiliance! 'Effie' isn't a nickname, it's my full name," Effie says indignantly.

"And _I'm _not Clairvoyance anymore. Got it?"

Under threat of being called 'Effiliance' for the rest of her days, Effie reluctantly agrees. The two of them spend the next ten minutes laughing.

xXx

They watch the Reapings late on the first night, still on the train. The tributes, both fifteen, sit huddled on a small couch. Effie has collapsed into an armchair embroidered with exotic flowers and Haymitch is nearly inebriated, half-sitting, half-laying on another couch. He seems quite beyond the situation, not even watching the Reaping.

District 1's tributes are strong, muscular eighteens, just like the ones from Two. In District 3, an escort named Gyana picks a name that is virtually unpronounceable. She actually manages to come very close, making only one mistake that is masked almost entirely by her Capitol accent. No one really notices, not even when the tribute is asked to say their name. But Effie can practically see Gyana quivering through the pink dress, nerves getting the best of her. Effie nods sympathetically.

In District Four, there is a female volunteer, but the boy is not replaced. In Eight, both tributes are thirteen; Effie shudders as her last year's tributes' faces flash through her mind. In Ten, a stray cow tries to enter the Reaping Square but is quickly ushered away. In eleven Districts, the Reapings are just like all of the previous ones, with nothing out of the ordinary occurring. Then comes Twelve.

The film cuts to a shot of the District stage. Amidst the drab, depressing grey, viewers can clearly make out something bright and glittery. As the cameras zoom in, Effie can't suppress her smile. _She_ is the glittery thing.

She appears to be dressed in sheer sapphire, radiant and beautiful. From her jewel-encrusted wig to her gem-covered dress, Effie is one big stone. The precious jewels are in her make up, sitting at the corners of her eyes, and on her nails, pressed deep into the polish.

The commentators begin to chatter, awed by this creature drawing the names from glass fishbowls. No escort has ever looked like this. The cameras briefly cut away to the tributes, but only enough for their faces to be recognizable to the audience. For most of the time, they are drawn to Effie, the walking gemstone. After pulling all of the possible screen time, the show is turned back over to the reporters in the Capitol, who announce that 'these should be some exciting Games!' before carrying on with the weather reports. Effie switches the television off, still grinning.

"Nice job, you two. You really kept it together up there. Now, time for bed! We'll be in Capitol tomorrow, so get you rest," she instructs, sending them off. She stands in silence for a few moments, and then starts to walk off herself.

"Hey, Effie." She whirls around and sees Haymitch looking at her.

"What?" she snaps.

"Props to your stylist, whoever they are," he says, smiling. She nods.

"Her name's Éclair. We tried to keep the cameras away from the tributes," she explains. He sighs.

"They're still going to die, you know," he states sadly. Effie stiffens.

"Well, that's not a given. I mean, say that…" she trails off, not really knowing how to finish. Haymitch smirks. "Well, it's not necessarily true!" she announces. He nods.

"Not necessarily." They look at each other in silence for a few seconds, knowing that they are hanging on to a fraying thread.

xXx


	9. Year Nine: Dandelion Yellow

**Disclaimer:** No need to worry. Nothing has changed.

**A/N: **Hello again, my friends. My updating consistency is shameful, but I promise that I will do so more frequently during the next few weeks. Without further ado, I present orange creamsicles to reviewers **Aureleis**, **allonsysilvertongue**, and **The Curse of Normality**, as well as the favoriters and alerters. Thank you.

xXx

_Year Nine_

_Dandelion Yellow_

xXx

"So… I'm going to be a flower?" Effie asks, wrinkling her nose. Éclair shrugs.

"Well, we can't exactly repeat the gemstone idea, can we? Why, what's wrong with a flower?" she asks, tilting her head to one side.

"I have allergies." The two of them burst out laughing, with Éclair choking out something about the importance of not sneezing onstage.

"So," Effie continues when the laughter has subsided, "how do we know that no one else will be a flower?"

"Because all of them will be gemstones," Éclair responds simply, grinning.

"Oh." For a couple of minutes, the only sound is that of Éclair's scissors snipping away at the fabric.

"So, if you weren't an escort, what would you be?" Éclair asks, catching Effie off guard.

"Um, I don't know."

"Did you go to a university?" inquires Éclair, not even looking up.

"Yes."

"And studied what?"

"Humanities," responds Effie, vaguely.

"What in particular?" There is a slight pause.

"Um… the arts, writing, and architecture. I wanted to be a part time author, part time architect. Of course, if I wasn't an escort," Effie explains.

"How did you do this if you started escorting when you were twenty?" questions the stylist.

"I skipped a year of school." There is another pause.

"And… you took escorting classes?" asks Éclair, folding the fabric and getting out a sketchbook.

"Yes, I did. It was required. We learned how to speak publicly. And we had these lessons on how to report and recognize signs of rebellion," states Effie, rolling her eyes. "Though I could probably report Haymitch on a daily basis. You wouldn't know the things he says about the Games… when he's drunk!" she adds quickly.

"Oh, I think I know," mutters Éclair under her breath, then looks around quickly. Effie grins.

"See, that's exactly the kind of thing we were taught to tell officials about.," she says jokingly. "Did stylists have to take classes like that?"

Éclair shakes her head. "No, but I'd imagine they do now. After what Atlas did with the water." Effie nods, biting her lip. Éclair looks off into the flickering light and doesn't even seem to notice.

xXx

"I remember watching the interview with my family," Haymitch announces abruptly. They've reached the top eight now, and the interviews with the families of the remaining tributes air tomorrow. The Gamemakers are trying desperately to keep everyone alive; this basically means that they are not killing off tributes on a whim. Both of the children from Twelve have been dead for days, anyway, so Effie doesn't see the temporary respite as a happy turn of events.

"Really?" Effie asks him, tearing her eyes away from the screen. He nods, not bothering to turn towards her.

"Yeah. It was the last thing I heard them say." There is silence, utter silence. Haymitch takes a big gulp of something from his flask. Effie feels a lump forming in her throat.

"I'm sorry," she says, knowing immediately that it's not going to help. He shakes his head.

"It doesn't change anything. They're dead, and all because of me. Damn, sometimes I wish I was dead instead of them," he says. She's not sure if he's talking to her or to himself and chooses to stay silent. Suddenly, Caesar Fickerman's face appears on the screen. He proceeds to describe the significance of the interviews to the viewers before turning the broadcast back to the Games themselves.

For a while, all that is shown is a boy from Four going after people with a trident and the Gamemakers making an effort to keep him away from the other tributes. The audience must be getting bored, because the cameras suddenly cut to the interior of the District One Justice Building, where reporters begin to interview the brother of one of the remaining contestants. Haymitch rises abruptly and walks away, clutching the bottle in his hand.

She doesn't see him again until the interviews are over. She's about to leave for the night when she trips over him. He's sprawled out on the hallway floor, still holding a now-empty bottle of liquor. She sighs, crouching down beside him.

"Haymitch. Come on, go to bed," she says quietly. He stirs, rolling over and crashing into the wall.

"Huh? Effsie?" he mumbles and she remembers how they met. _See you later, Effsie Trunkil…_

"Yeah, it's me. Let's go," she says gently. He nods and tries to sit up, but can't quite support his own weight.

"You know what? I hate the damn Games, and I hate the damn Capitol. Screw them! Every year…" he says, slurring some of the word and mumbling others. She sighs.

"I could report you for that, you know," Effie says, eyeing the wreck of a mentor before her.

"Yeah, I know, princess," he whispers, half-asleep again. She takes a deep breath and manages to drag him into his room.

"I know," she whispers softly before rising up and spreading a blanket over him. As she leaves, she hears her own words circulating through her mind, weaving a strange melody: _I know. I know. I know…_ And she knows that it's true, that she'll never be quite able to restore the festive, bubbly Effie. She isn't champagne anymore. She's kept too much of an open mind…

xXx


	10. Year Ten: Caramel

**Disclaimer:** This is _fanfiction_. Honestly, need I say more?

**A/N:** Alright, here's the next chapter. This time, "thank you"s (along with generous servings of virtual whipped cream on top of fresh imaginary fruits of choice) go to reviewers **TheGirlWhoWasOnFire21**, **NurseKelly**, and **The Curse of Normality**, along with all of my lovely favoriters and alerters. Thank you, guys, and keep it up!

xXx

_Year Ten_

_Caramel_

xXx

"I can't do it anymore." The statement, a hysterical whisper, leaves Effie's mouth before she can stop it, but it's no use lying to Éclair anymore.

"I know," sighs the stylist, but Effie doesn't hear Éclair's voice. She hears her own. "I know." _I know. I know. I know, I know, I know…_

"Éclair, I'm leaving. I can't stay. It'll destroy…" She doesn't finish. She can't finish anymore. Éclair shakes her head.

"Effie, you –" she begins, but Effie interrupts.

"I can! I can claim that some family member is sick, or I can, um, say that I have some sort of disease, or I can, well…" She pauses briefly. "Well, I can think of something. I've just got to get out of here. As far away from this business as I possibly can."

"And then what?" Éclair asks. "What happens after that?" Effie shrugs, taken aback by the question. "Are you going to take up architecture or something? You'll never be able to do that. You can't forget the Games. They'll stay with you."

"So? I'll figure something out," Effie responds. "Take my chances in some other area and try not to dwell on the past. No big deal." It's no use, this lying to herself; she knows full well that it is a very big deal.

"I'm afraid, Effie, that that will be impossible. The Games will go on, whether you're there or not. Every year, you'll have to watch them again, and be reminded of everything."

"Well, what am I supposed to do then? Embrace the death of these children that _I_ –" Effie starts angrily, but Éclair cuts her off.

"No. But do you think that it'll be any better if someone else takes your place? You are a rarity, Effie. Most people wouldn't care at all about the tributes. They need _you_. You have to understand that," she says. Effie gives a muffled sob.

"I really can't escape, can I?" The escort's voice sounds flat and defeated as the weighty truth finally settles over her.

"No. You can't. The sooner you accept that, the easier it will be. You'll never be able to escape it. You don't have to embrace it. You don't have to learn to hold yourself together. You just have to know how to pick up the pieces," responds the stylist.

_Those elusive pieces… _

xXx

"Éclair, what on earth are you doing here?" Effie hisses at her stylist, who is standing in a shadowy alcove in a hallway of the Control Center. Muffled sounds of laughter, shouts, and the general clamoring of people can be heard from the lower levels. Mercifully, this particular wing of the building is relatively empty. "You aren't supposed to be here!"

"I needed to talk to you," she states. "I mean, you show up at the Reaping in a stained dress, and I'm supposed to just accept that without worrying? What on Earth happened?" Effie takes a deep breath.

"Get ready for a long story," she says. Upon hearing the silence from the stylist, she decides to go on. "So I go to wake up Haymitch; he's always drunk on Reaping Day, you know. I come in because his door is unlocked again and I go into his room and try to shake him awake. He's having some sort of nightmare, so I shake him by one shoulder. And that's when I find out that he sleeps with a knife. You see where I'm going with this?"

"Wait, do you mean that… oh, just keep going," says Éclair. Effie continues.

"So, he sits up and slashes at me with the thing. I can only assume that he thought I was a tribute or something that was out to kill him. The knife catches my arm and rips through the sleeve, slicing a nice length of skin for good measure. So I'm standing her, _bleeding _in my Reaping dress. I managed to get both sleeves equally stained so it looked deliberate. Sort of. Anyway, we got it bandaged up and everything, but it didn't wash out. Not all the way, at least. I was actually quite a bit worried about what you were going to say. You know, I thought you were going to freak out when you saw me on stage in a dress that looked different than the one that you made," she concludes. Éclair just stands there, alarmingly silent.

"Okay, let's get this much straight. You picked names from a Reaping Bowl in a blood-stained dress." Éclair's voice is bordering on dangerous.

"Well, pretty much. It sounds a lot worse put like that." Effie bites her lip, but the stylist doesn't even bother to reprimand her. "You make it sound like it's a crime."

"Okay, think about it this way: how do you think the Capitol likes someone who looks like a bloody murderer pulling the names from the Reaping bowl? What kind of image does this create?" Éclair whispers, fear burrowing deep into her tone.

"Oh, God…" Effie whispers, feeling the horror course through her veins.

"Yeah, exactly. I know that there was nothing you could do, but it didn't really work out. You got really lucky that caramel is similar enough to the colour of drying blood," says the stylist bitterly.

"What are we going to do?" asks Effie, dreading the answer. Éclair shrugs, trying her hardest to appear nonchalant.

"Well, I'll try to figure something out in terms of clothing. You… just try and improvise, okay? Act like you don't know the implications of wearing that dress. Be really pleasant," Éclair suggests, but they both know that by 'pleasant', she means 'careful'.

"Fine, I'll try," says Effie. Éclair gives her a terse nod and slips further into the shadows.

xXx


	11. Year Eleven: Deepest Purple

**Disclaimer:** I bow to Suzanne Collins, and doubt my ability to bow to myself.

**A/N:** Hello, readers. This one's a bit shorter, but I hope it will suffice. Chocolate fondues are awarded to **TheGirlWhoWasOnFire21** (Haymitch is back in this chapter), **Aureleis**, **allonsysilvertongue**, and **The Curse of Normality**, who has reviewed _every single chapter thus far_. Wow. The fondues are also for anyone who favorited/alerted. Keep up the awesome work!

xXx

_Year Eleven_

_Deepest Purple_

xXx

"Effie, they mailed me a warning about the blood. I know you aren't going to like this, but we are going to have to compensate," she states, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. Effie stares.

"How –?" she doesn't even have to finish the question.

"You will have to act. You play the part of the cheery Capitol citizen again, show that you're oh-so-happy to be up on that stage. Pretend that you don't even need to bend down to pick up the pieces." Disgust. It is the only feeling that Effie gets from Éclair's suggestion. But it's not as though there is much of a choice.

"I'll act," she says, hating the very word.

"Good. Try your very hardest, Effie. Act the part. I'll come up with a costume for you, but you have to make it count." Effie nods, understanding that it's true. That's what she'll have to do.

"What will I be wearing?" she inquires, trying hard to change the subject. Éclair's face relaxes, the way it always does when she's asked to talk about her designs.

"The deepest of purples. In Rome, a long time ago, purple was a royal colour and only government officials could wear it. You had to be very devoted to the country to wear anything purple, so it should give off the impression that you love Panem. You'll look proper and majestic, none of the bloody murderer insanity." Effie smiles a semi-genuine grin. Then, softer, she concludes, "You'll be fine. You'll be okay."

"I will? How do I do that? We both know I'm not that good at acting," asks Effie, nervous.

"Just think about… manners and schedules. Okay? Manners and schedules. In front of the cameras, it's manners and schedules," says the stylist. Effie shudders. "Come on, Effie, you should know about manners and schedules. You didn't take escorting classes for nothing, did you?"

"I suppose not," the escort says dubiously. Éclair comes over and pats her on the shoulder.

"_You're _lucky. _You_ escaped," murmurs Effie, a note of something – accusation, perhaps? – in her voice.

"I wouldn't call myself lucky. But I see your point, and it does succeed in making me guilty, if that is what you were attempting to accomplish in saying that," says the stylist in a calm, measured voice that holds a bitter undertone. Then, she adds, "But don't forget, Effie: you're stronger than I was. You can make it. Just act. You can do it." "I'll try." _Doesn't seem like there's much else that I can do._

xXx

She comes to collect Haymitch early in the morning of day four. Bryson has lasted this long, and she feels that she owes to the poor child to at least make sure that his mentor is present at the next sponsor meeting. She knows better than to wake him after the previous year's occurrences and chooses to rap lightly on his door instead.

"Haymitch! You awake in there?" she calls, her knuckles tapping against the wood. She doesn't really expect an answer, so the moan that she gets in response is more than she could have hoped for. "Okay, I'm coming in."

She has, as she discovers, not over-estimated the mess that greets her when she opens the door. From the clothes and bottles of varying size littering the floor to the cracked mirror than appears to be beyond repair to the tangle of sheets which hide Haymitch himself, the room disgusts her. It reeks of strong liquors; Effie feels light-headed from being in the space for a mere few seconds.

"Trinklets?" mumbles Haymitch, trying – and failing – to twist around in the tangle of sheets.

"It's Trinket. Effie Trinket," she states, rolling her eyes. He nods.

"Trinklets," he tries again, slurring syllables together. She sighs.

"Well, that's probably as close as you'll come, in this state. Though you should know better than to mispronounce a lady's name," she comments, deciding that it's a fine time to practice the 'manners and scheduling' approach. He snorts. "What's so funny?"

"You?" he chokes out. "Lady?" He guffaws loudly. Effie purses her lips in displeasure and opens her mouth to defend herself but stops. _Come on, Eff. He's __**drunk**__. What do you expect?_

"Come on, Haymitch. Time for some talk with the sponsors. And don't you dare think of disgracing Twelve any farther," Effie warns, her hands planted firmly on her hips. She assumes that the situation must look rather comical from the side, what with her height. She's always been slightly below average, but she's really tiny compared to Haymitch.

"You know, I hate you," he mumbles. Effie refrains for stating something along the lines of _'What else is new?'_ "There damn well are more important things you manners and schedules." She sighs.

"It's all an act, you know. For the Capitol," she whispers, looking at him as he tries to get up.

"Yeah, well, acting is for cowards. Damn it, Trinklets, you're too afraid, aren't you," he says, brandishing his fist and slurring half of the words. "Too cowardly to show everyone what you really think, too cowardly to–"

And, without quite concluding his explanation of exactly what she is too cowardly to do, he topples over backwards and leaves Effie speechless.

xXx


	12. Year Twelve: Black

**Disclaimer: **I am Suzanne Collins. The sky is orange with purple squiggly thingies. The year is 500 BC. The world is ruled by a giant amoeba. Get the picture? *_By this, I mean that I do not own THG. Have I made that clear enough? :)*_

**A/N:** Hello, hello. I have returned with another chapter and two items of business. Item one: you guys/girls are _awesome_. Seriously. Thank you for all the reviews / favorites / alerts. Large servings of frozen custard are awarded to **LadyNobleSong**, **Aureleis**,** TheGirlWhoWasOnFire21**, **master-fangirl**, and **The Curse of Normality** for reviewing chapter eleven, a certain **Guest **for reviewing chapter one, and to all of the favoriters/alerters out there. Thank you, my friends! Item two: as I'm going away on vacation, I will be unable to update for two or so weeks. I'm truly sorry, but it is what it is. I promise to post when I get back, and present you with this longer-than-average chapter, now. Speaking of which, on to the chapter!

xXx

_Year Twelve_

_Black_

xXx

"And, Effie?"

"Yeah, what?"

"Just so you know, I still think that you're the world's biggest idiot," says Éclair, rearranging a few strands of Effie's pale brown hair that are poking out from under her wig. They stand in the middle of a bustling train station in the middle of the Capitol. The roof is made of pure glass, each pane dyed in a different shade of the same fluorescent pink. Trains, polished and shiny, line the space, each moving noiselessly when it takes off to its next destination. Effie's train to District 12 leaves in a matter of minutes and Éclair is seeing her off.

"Oh, relax, Éclair," says the younger woman, not entirely able to hide the note of worry of her own voice. Éclair shakes her head.

"Black, Effie," she states, pointing to her client's ebony skirt, "is a funeral colour. And escort wearing black to a Reaping is not taken lightly."

"How do you know? It's not like it's ever been done before," says Effie, reapplying black lipstick and admiring her own reflection on the polished side of a luxury train.

"Yeah, but it's of the same caliber as Atlas and the water," points out the stylist. Effie shakes her head in denial and Éclair adds, "You got a warning the year before the last about the blood, and now you're wearing _black_. Think about it, Effie. It's a stupid plan."

"Well, I'm perfectly aware of the consequences and I still want to carry through with it," says Effie, standing up even straighter than before.

"Oh, why can't you just act? Why do you have to do things like this?" Éclair asks no-one in particular. She sounds afraid and sad and proud, all at the same time.

"Because acting… is for cowards," whispers Effie, remembering the words of Haymitch. Éclair rolls her eyes.

"And who told you that?" she asks, her voice bearing an "I already know" undertone.

"Haymitch," says Effie with as much nonchalance as she can muster. A strange spasm of emotion flits across Éclair's features. _Pain. Fear. Respect._ Effie lowers her voice significantly before continuing. "He's right, you know."

"No, Effie," whispers Éclair in response. "Acting is either for cowards or for artists. You aren't the coward." Effie sighs. Just then, an odd static crackle fills the air.

"Train 134612 en route to District 12 is arriving. I repeat, train 134612 en route to District 12 is arriving," calls a strange, scratchy voice over the intercom.

"Okay, I have to go," says Effie, picking her luggage up off the ground. Éclair nods.

"Right, then, take care of yourself. Good luck," she replies, hoping that Effie will get the real meaning of her message: _be careful._ A strange light of understanding in the younger woman's eyes confirms it.

"See you," she calls, then runs off to wherever Train 134612 en route to District 12 is arriving. Éclair watches after her, letting the fear course freely through her veins: _be careful, Effie Trinket._

xXx

She raps her knuckles against the door, noting how pale they look against the dark wood. Fear has stolen the warm tinge of her skin, leaving her white and shaking.

"Come in," calls the voice of the Head Gamemaker from inside the room. Effie suppresses a whimper and pushes open the door. It does not creak. The office within is the most organized and expensive Effie's ever been in. From the velvet that covers the walls to the embroidered curtains, the entire space is spotless. The Head Gamemaker himself, Tobias Wrapsons, sits behind the desk. He is old, but his silvery hair is styled with precision and his eyebrows have been dyed a royal purple.

"Mr. Wrapsons, sir," she says, keeping her voice steady as best as she can.

"Please, call me Tobias, Effie," he says and she immediately decides that she hates the way he says her name. "Now, let's get started. Are you aware that you wore black to the District 12 Reaping?"

She briefly considers 'No, did I?' as a response, but settles on, "Yes, sir." He smiles as he watches her discomfort.

"Do you know, Effie, of the mood that this particular colour creates?" he continues. She opens her mouth to respond, but does not permit her to answer. This is just fine, because she isn't sure she remembers how to speak properly, anyway.

"Then why, my dear, did you choose it?" he inquires, leaning forward in his seat and flexing his fingers. Effie can feel herself recoil at "my dear" but doesn't say anything about it.

"Um…" she trails off, not knowing of an excuse that she could use. She racks her memory for things that make people act in strange ways, because living up to the expectations of the District 12 drunk is not an acceptable answer; it seems like all possible responses have slipped her mind.

"Speak, dearest. I can easily use that stylist of yours as persuasion. And maybe that mentor, too…" he smiles, wider now, and she sees that his gums are the colour of his eyebrows. She hates it, she hates him. _How dare he?_ She thinks. _How can he even think about using Éclair against me? And, of all people, Haymitch? Does he have any idea of what I'll feel if Haymitch is gone, dead, if he – I mean, if the Twelve children are left with no mentor? If I have to take them to the Capitol alone? If Haymitch dies, if I'm left without a constant in these horrible Games? No, I can't let it happen!_

"I'm… not sure. I… wasn't thinking straight, and I guess I thought it would be stylish, because somebody told me black was, uh… going to be all the rage this season," she says quietly, trying to rein in the words but losing her grip on them. Her tongue and mind disagree and she finds herself stumbling over the most obvious of ideas.

"I'm sure you weren't," says Tobias, his tone showing that he doesn't believe her. "Now, do you realize the fact that you may have just damaged the reputation of these Games?" he asks, his voice bordering on dangerous.

"Yes, sir." She hopes that she's answered correctly.

"Have I not told you to call me Tobias? And how do you plan to restore the Games, Effie?" he looks deep into her eyes. And Effie knows. The answer is obvious. But she cannot say it. No. She will not do it. "My dear, think about Éclair Widewater, Haymitch Abernathy, and a machete. Do you know the answer?" She shudders. No, no, no. He wouldn't. He couldn't. Not Éclair. And surely not Haymitch! _But no,_ whispers a voice at the back of Effie's mind, _he would. He could. He will if you don't do what he needs._

"I'll show the Districts the true spirit of the Games. I'll… be…" And she knows that only one word will satisfy him, but she can't bring herself to say it. _My dear, think about Éclair, Haymitch, and a machete…_ She speaks. "Myself." She hates herself, because it's a lie. The bouncy creature from year eleven was not the real Effie Trinket. But it'll have to do.

"Good girl. You know you love the Games; show the Districts your true passion," whispers Tobias, smiling. "I'll put the machete away for now, but, remember, it's always there." And he's done it. He's sentenced her to a life that is, essentially, a lie. He's dragged her friends – or, at the very least, teammates – into it for good measure. "Don't forget that." _Or, in other words, act or they die._ She has to restrain herself, to suppress the urge to punch him.

"You may go, my lovely," he says, blowing her a coquettish kiss. She nods curtly and hurries from the room. The second the door shuts, she takes off at a run, her shoes clicking against the pale marble. She wants to throw up from both the pet names and the stress of the situation. No, it's all wrong. She can't act, she isn't what they want her to become. She has no control anymore. And, no matter how hard she tries, she can't keep the damned machete out of her mind.

xXx


	13. Year Thirteen: Neon Yellow

**Disclaimer:** I'm not Ms. Collins, but wishful thinking never hurts.

**A/N:** And I'm… back! Hello again, readers. My trip is now over, so I can get back to posting. Without further ado, I would like to thank** Aureleis **and **TheGirlWhoWasOnFire21** for their reviews, along with anyone who favorited and/or alerted with some lovely cranberry tarts. Please keep up the support! Another tart goes to **The Curse of Normality**, because I just couldn't resist borrowing Gyana again. Thanks, Cursie! And now, on to the chapter.

xXx

_Year Thirteen_

_Neon Yellow_

xXx

"And if I d-don't, they'll kill Haymitch," Effie chokes out, her body shaking from sobs. She's had some time to mull it over and has come to the conclusion that she shouldn't tell Éclair that the threat pertains to her, as well. _Best not worry her. She has enough on her mind already, what with this mess I've caused._ "It's all m-my fault! If I hadn't w-worn the b-black, he'd be s-safe!"

"I beg to differ. We'd have ended up like this at some point, anyway, and I like to think that we deserved it and were not punished for no apparent reason," Éclair says softly to a sobbing Effie, who seems to brighten slightly at the suggestion. "We would have gotten to this point anyway, Haymitch, you, and I," she continues. "Speaking of Haymitch, does he know about our predicament?"

"No, I haven't told him. Not like I could, considering I haven't seen him and really don't feel like calling him. Besides, is it really _wise_ to give that sort of information to someone who is drunk half of the time?" asks Effie, before adding, "And, well, I don't want to scare him or cause trouble or…"

"Okay. Maybe not," Éclair says. Effie nods. "But you realize that he's going to hate you when you act like you love the Games and he doesn't know that you have to, don't you?" She nods again; she's thought of this before. It's infuriating, but it will help out in the grand scheme of things. She's put a lot into this 'grand scheme' recently, though she's not sure if any of it will come back out or if it will be the same when it does.

"I'm going to have to act. I have to rehearse or I'm not going to be able to do it." Effie intended for it to come out as a musing, an opinion, maybe even a question, but instead it sounds like a fact of life.

Éclair sighs. "Do you want me to coach you?" she asks. Without waiting for a response, she goes on. "Okay, try your Reaping speech." Effie takes a deep breath, composes herself and begins.

"Welcome, welcome! Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor. The time has come to select one brave young man and woman for the honor of representing District 12 in the 71st annual…" she trails off when she sees her Éclair shaking her head. She knows why, too; her tone is flat and lacks cheer and volume. In fact, she sounds like she's at a funeral.

"Come on, Effie! Vivid, lively. Smile!" Éclair calls out, but Effie can see that the stylist hates it. She sighs before trying again.

"Welcome, welcome!" she chants out again, but Éclair cuts her off.

"Okay, how about you try _becoming_ this enthusiastic escort. Don't just act, _embody_ it!" Effie nods, trying her hardest to keep the disgust at bay. _Think like an escort, Effie. There's no other way._

She cries out the speech again, trying to emphasize her accent and her posture, trilling excitedly rather than talking. Éclair blinks at her, impressed, and Effie is glad. It's good, and it'll help her, in the grand scheme of things.

xXx

"So, Flo, how is Johanna doing?" Effie takes a bite of her cranberry tart and smiles expectantly at the District Seven Escort. They're at the retirement party of Head Gamemaker Tobias Wrapsons, and Effie is very pleased with the fact he is being replaced by a much younger man named Seneca Crane, whose gums do not match his eyebrows and who does not refer to her as "my dear." Flora Goldenight thinks for a few moments.

"Oh, fine. She's, like, a really bright girl," she says at length. "I can, like, hardly wait for the interviews. I just hope she acts civil during them." Effie briefly thinks of the horrid killings that poor Johanna Mason was forced to orchestrate in the Arena. _Fine? _She shakes her head, knowing that these are exactly the thought that she has to exterminate.

"Oh, good. I'm sure she'll be wonderful," she says in an offhand manner, staring pointedly at the tart. Flora nods.

"She has a, like, tendency to call people 'brainless', but I, you know, doubt that she'll tell that to Caesar Flickerman. Still, you can never be sure. I mean, look at Haymitch over there," says the escort, causing Effie to whirl around in time to see Haymitch vomit all over the linoleum flooring, still gripping a delicate wineglass full of a transparent liquid.

"Okay, that's enough alcohol," groans Effie and tries to get up, but Flora catches her wrist. She's laughing. "Let me go, Flo!"

"It's n-not alcohol," hiccups Flora, trying to keeps a straight face. "It's the cleanser!" Effie looks at her, mystified. Flora bursts out laughing again. "They, like, invented it this year. Some chemical that makes you vomit so that you can eat as much as you, like, please. Isn't it brilliant?"

Effie thinks of the crowd in District 12. Cheek bones far too prominent for a healthy body weight. Eyes large as compared to the malnourished features. No, no, no. It is not brilliant. But machetes have a tendency to prevent that sort of thinking. "Yes, brilliant."

"How do you put up with Haymitch? I mean, I'd, like, totally scream at him every five seconds!" inquires Flora, taking another spring green cookie that, in Effie's opinion, looks poisonous from Gyana, the escort from Four who is nodding at Flora's statement.

"Yes," Gyana adds, "it takes a great deal of self control, doesn't it?" Effie shrugs noncommittally.

"Not really. You… get used to it. The drinking and all," she says, trying to plaster on an indifferent mask. _Come on, Effie, act: you're just another escort, way above your District's drunks._

"If you say so," Gyana states before trotting off to make conversation with Tobias Wrapsons.

"Honestly, though, it must be such a chore. I would, like, _so_ not want to go near that idiot," squeals Flora. Then, she adopts a slightly dreamier tone. "I heard he used to be handsome, you know. I wonder why he can't, like, be normal and cool, or something." Effie shrugs again. She thinks back to last night.

_'Oh, Johanna won. Good for her," she had commented and Haymitch had turned around to look at her._

_'You don't get it, do you?' he'd asked, sighing. 'Not that I'd expected you to, being this Capitolian princess and all. Bright _yellow._ See, when you win, you don't really leave the Arena. You are haunted. But you wouldn't understand. And to think that I thought you were different.' She had been hurt by his words but tried her very hardest not to show it._

_'It's not like that, Haymitch! I don't –' she'd started, but he'd cut her off with a simple phrase._

_'It's exactly like that. And I actually believed that you were... Ha! Well, I see now. You weren't,' he'd said, and she'd wanted to explain everything, but she couldn't. It would only hurt both of them, in the grand scheme of things. As he'd left the room, she'd thought that maybe this scheme wasn't all that grand, but there were no options._

"Effie? You alright?" Flora's voice snaps her back to reality. She nods hastily, trying to cover up her lapse in attention.

"Fine. It's just… so, um, stuffy in here," she says hoping that her excuse is plausible enough. Flora nods.

Effie turns around to look at Haymitch, ladling more punch into his glass and ignoring the vomit that soils the white tiling. He looks up and sees her watching. He turns away with a disgusted smirk. She swallows the odd, impending feeling of sadness, tries to forget that the one person besides Éclair who was her teammate, who she could trust and who she at least somewhat understood is never going to see the real her again.

_Well,_ she thinks, _at least I know now. Nothing that's put into the grand scheme of things returns unchanged. It's always different, because you never really leave this grand scheme. It doesn't let you._

She rises and walks over to the bowl of chilled fruit, hoping for an ice cube to suck on, but all that she finds is a small puddle of water. Because the grand scheme doesn't even let _that_ one frail constant remain.

xXx


	14. Year Fourteen: Periwinkle

**Disclaimer: **Shockingly enough, I don't own the Hunger Games.

**A/N:** I've decided to post this chapter ahead of schedule, since editing's been going so well. Marshmallows are awarded to **moonlight goose**, **TheGirlWhoWasOnFire21**, and **Aureleis** for their reviews, and I thank anyone who favorited or alerted the story. Let us begin.

xXx

_Year Fourteen_

_Periwinkle_

xXx

"Thank you, Effie," whispers Éclair the moment her client enters the room. Effie raises her eyebrows, a habit she's gotten from Éclair, who admittedly bites her lip more often. Effie often wonders just how big a difference fourteen years can have or if Haymitch has rubbed off on her in this way. Each time, she has to remind herself that he _did_, which is exactly the reason she is in this situation now.

"What for?" she asks, taking her shoes off and setting them on the little mat by the door.

"For acting so well. You were terrific," says the stylist, beaming in what Effie sees as relief.

"Should I be insulted?" she asks, no note of joking in her voice. Éclair stops smiling.

"Effie. Please. You did what you had to do," she mumbles, breaking eye contact with Effie, who knows that the stylist's "emotional vulnerability", as Éclair herself put it so long ago, is getting the best of.

"I know. It's just… once you see… them…," she trails off, sighing and taking a few deep breaths before continuing. "You really can't. And if you do, because it helps in… the grand scheme of things, everything changes." Éclair nods.

"Could you… explain?" she asks, though the real question is _"Could you tell me any more or will it cause you to experience an emotional meltdown?"_

"It's… him." The explanation is sufficient. A strange look takes over Éclair's features, one which is the embodiment of understanding, pain, and sympathy. Effie thinks that she catches a deep sadness, too, but it is gone after a fleeting moment, so brief that she can't be sure it ever existed in the first place.

"Haymitch?" Éclair doesn't even look up from the dusty floorboards to confirm it. "He doesn't know it's an act." Effie shakes her head, closing her eyes. Éclair sighs. "You care, don't you?" she asks. Effie stiffens, thinking back to how, ten or so years ago, a woman from an alcohol support agency had been under the impression that she'd been in love with him. No, she wasn't; not really, anyway, and not in _that way_. But… she cared. She had to care. At some point, it all _clicks_ and you can't feel _nothing_ towards the person who you spent so much time with. She cares about him, which is precisely why she can't let him in on their predicament.

"Maybe. Yes. I don't know," she says, and Éclair smiles softly. There is no happiness in her grin, just gentleness.

"I know how you feel," she whispers, turning around and stroking the polished handle of the closet. Her voice is thick with unshed tears.

"How?" Effie asks, watching the stylist and wondering if her tears are the colour of cream, too.

"Atlas. I… loved… him. And then…" she stops, and Effie knows that it is too painful for her to go on. "I… I wasn't _in love_ with him in the… customary way. Maybe some of that was involved, too, but, I loved him as… a friend, I guess, not a lover. You know?" There is a strange desperation in her voice, a hope that Effie _does_ know, that someone finally understands her pain.

"Yeah, I know," she says, because she does. That sort of _caring_, that kind of _love_ that wasn't preceded by an _in_.

"Maybe it'll still work out, Effie. Not for me; Atlas is dead. But you… Haymitch is still alive. Maybe he'll understand, maybe it'll be different," says Éclair, turning back to face her friend. Cream-coloured tears roll down her cheeks, leaving wet tracks of sadness. Effie shrugs. It could happen. Haymitch could eventually see through her act. But it's so… unlikely. The chance that he would, that he cares about her in the same way, the very idea… no. It's nearly impossible, and maybe that's for the best. They're strictly professional. Good. She swallows hard and leaves it at that.

"Maybe," she responds, smiling weakly. She doesn't believe it.

xXx

She stares at one of the shrimp. It doesn't have eyes, but she imagines the specks of seasoning looking back at her and shudders. No, the shrimp isn't ogling at her. She's seeing things.

She turns her attention to the large screen in the room's center. A shot of the boy from Five, drowning, gives way to that of Annie Cresta of District Four, who doesn't appear to hear the blaring trumpets and the voice of Claudius Templesmith announcing her victory. She's treading water, but her arms are flailing at apparitions invisible to the rest of the world. She's screaming, but it's more of a mournful wail than a shriek of terror.

A few yards away, Finnick is whimpering softly. At first, Effie is sure that it's just some machine or other; there are plenty of those in the room, and some are bound to malfunction. But, honestly, she knows that it's him. It makes her wonder, because the pain in his eyes is so intense, so _vivid_ that she knows he's crying for someone he knows. Someone he cares about. Someone he loves.

"Annie." It's his voice, she knows, and suddenly it all clicks. Finnick Odair, the handsome Don Juan of Panem, loves none other than a seventeen-year-old girl with dark hair, turquoise eyes, and star-shaped freckle in the corner of one eye. A girl who's going insane in the waters of an Arena.

_No. _She stops herself. She can't afford to think like that. _No, no, no._ She's heard rumors of disappearances recently, all strange 'accidents.' _No._ The machete looms over her, because the retirement of Tobias Wrapsons does not mean safety.

The claw of the hovercraft is slowly descending upon Annie, and she's trashing. She dives underwater, either trying to avoid the hovercraft or to drown herself. The latter, however, is impossible; Annie Cresta is better in water than on land. Finnick is practically shaking now, laughing, sobbing, and moaning all at once. A few of the other Victors crowd around him. Beetee Ainsley hands him a handkerchief and his district counterpart, Wiress, gently pats his back; Haymitch and Chaff attempt – and fail – to cheer him up.

"Annie's alive, she's alive, she's okay," chorus the voices of the rooms occupants, but Finnick looks totally beyond it. Haymitch leans over and whispers something in the younger man's ear. Effie can practically imagine his gruff voice saying, _'She's not okay. She's never going to be okay. But she's alive, and it's more than you could have hoped for.'_ She shakes that thought, too, because even that rings of disobedience.

The claw of the hovercraft easily fishes Annie out of the water, and the screen is engulfed in a seal of Panem. The show is over until the interviews, which will come in a few days. Effie looks down at her hand, which is still clutching the shrimp. Surely, it, like Annie, once knew nothing but the waters of District Four. Who plucked it from the seas, tore it from its home? _No. _Effie shudders and all but throws it back into the bowl. _No._

She realizes that she's been living by the word 'maybe.' Maybe Annie will be alright, truly alright. Maybe Haymitch _will_ understand her, someday. Maybe she'll learn to pretend, to forget, to become the escort she has to be. _Maybe, maybe, maybe, _she tells herself.

She doesn't believe any of it.

xXx


	15. Year Fifteen: Sea Green

**Disclaimer: **I own The Hunger Games. By that, I mean that I have three hardcover books on my shelf. All rights are Suzanne Collins'.

**A/N:** Sorry for the wait, guys, and thanks for the excellent response to the last update. Bars of Swiss (virtual) chocolate go to all chapter fourteen alerters/favoriters and reviewers **moonlight goose**, **Squint-1121**, **TheGirlWhoWasOnFire21**, **allonsysilvertongue**, and **The Curse of Normality **(also chapters twelve and thirteen). Thanks again, and enjoy!

xXx

_Chapter Fifteen_

_Sea Green_

xXx

"It," Éclair tells a doubtful-looking Effie, "is all the rage right now. People will think about your clothes, not you." Effie rolls her eyes. Of course, sea green is a favorite now. Annie's eyes, Finnick's eyes… the most 'interesting'and 'mysterious' tributes have irises of the colour (the little insight courtesy of Flora Goldenight, who is obviously set on giving Effie lectures on fashion after the tributes from their districts are dead).

"So I've heard," says Effie, unconvinced. Éclair nods.

"Just so you know, I spent a lot of time down in the stylist archives and discovered that it is considered the colour of loyalty," adds Éclair, knowing that this will give Effie no choice but to agree. Effie nods.

"Okay. But… I thought that the archives were only for stylists from the Games. How'd you…?" She tilts her head to one side. Éclair shrugs nonchalantly.

"Old friendship. Ten years of working there give me… an advantage, so to speak," Éclair says with a grin. Effie laughs.

"So you got in illegally?" she asks, shaking her head. Éclair pauses, seems to consider the suggestion, and then nods.

"I suppose." They share a laugh before turning back to the stylist's sketchbook. They flip through the pages, scrutinizing every ensemble and examining each wig, until Éclair breaks the silence.

"So. Your rehearsing appears to be going well, huh? I saw you the other day and must say that you improved a lot," say Éclair, and Effie freezes. Éclair eyes her tense form, then sighs. "What's wrong?"

"My acting… Éclair, what if…" she trails off, and they stand in silence. She inhales through her nose and continues. "What if I actually _turn_ _into_ this escort that I'm acting? What if lose myself?" She thinks for a few moments. "Well, lose my sense of self, if you know what I mean."

Éclair looks at her. "I see. You're afraid of becoming 'one of them', and they would love it if you did. You'll just have to… try to remember who are really are. Effie, I _wish_ that I could tell you that it's okay, I really do. But I don't know that, and there's no sense in lying to one another. Just _try_."

Effie sighs. She knows that Éclair is right; when it comes to Capitol society, she usually is. "But… isn't there anything that could help?" she asks. There is a short silence, the question hanging unanswered in the air. And then, the stylist responds.

"Only you can help yourself, now."

xXx

She stares into the steady light of the lamp and silently wishes it were flickering. She is so _used_ to the light in Éclair's shop that she feels uncomfortable sitting here, on this couch in the TV car of the train, headed to District 12. She has some paperwork to sort out with the Mayor, but it seems so trivial, now. _Another year, two more of them._ She laughs bitterly, digging her fingernails into the cushion.

"What's so funny?" Haymitch's voice asks from behind her, and she doesn't even have to turn around to know that he's come back for another drink. "Capitolian joke?" She purses her lips, but shakes her head in response. "So, what is it, then? And why aren't you wearing a wig? Is it out of fashion?" He collapses into the armchair across from her, slamming his glass down on the coffee table. He's drunk, but she's used to it.

"I don't feel well," she offers, but he rolls his eyes. She sighs. "Okay, fine. I feel awful." He smirks.

"Sick? Or finally guilty?" She feels her cheeks flush and can tell by his expression that he knows he's struck a nerve. "It's about time, you know. Maybe if you were to actually learn their names –"

"I know their names! Reed was the boy, and Leelac was the girl, but she went by Lee," Effie blurts, and Haymitch looks almost impressed for a brief moment.

"Good girl. So, what's wrong? Have they stopped making eye shadow?" he asks tauntingly. She groans and gets up.

"I'm getting myself a drink," she says to no one in particular as she walks over to the cabinet with the alcohol.

"You do that," he says, laughing. She flings open the door and stares at the empty shelves.

"What the –?" She turns back to Haymitch, who shrugs in fake-innocence. Effie rolls her eyes and strides back to the couch. As she sits down, she reaches forward, grabs Haymitch's glass, and swallows the contents.

She wonders how he drinks this stuff; to her, it feels like someone has set her entire body on fire. The flame that starts in her throat flows down her already-singed esophagus and curls up in her stomach like an angry dragon. She feels her eyes watering from the screaming heat.

Haymitch stares at her, his eyebrows arched in disbelief. "Have you ever had a hangover?" he asks, and she shakes her head. He smirks. "The answer will be changed by tomorrow morning," he tells her. They sit in silence for some time. At some point, she feels Haymitch get up. When he returns, he's holding two glasses. He hands one two her, and she doesn't bother to refuse, forcing it down her complaining throat. The fire-dragon roars again. Effie can feel the world start to loose focus. "What's wrong, Effie?" he questions, and she knows that she can't control her answer. Still, since the Games are over, the train probably isn't bugged.

"I'm loosing myself," she says. "I'm acting this chirpy escort, and it's going too far. It's so… real, because I can control it anymore. I'm actually turning into my character. It's all an act, but… my telling them off for their manners, hustling them about on a schedule... I'm slipping, and it's getting harder. I'm not allowed to say anything dumb, and I don't want to forget the real Effie Trinket." There is a pause.

"But… why are you acting?" he asks, his tone far softer now. She shudders; this is exactly what she'd vowed never to tell him, what she'd tried to keep from him. The room starts to dilate oddly and she takes a deep breath. Having never been drunk before, the sensation is entirely new. She wonders if she should have started with something weaker.

"Because… otherwise, they'll… kill Éclair… and… you." The room begins to spin, colours flying through the air around her. The lamp is flickering now, but she can't tell if it's real or not. She inhales, careful not to take in any of the whirls of pigment that soar around her. She can feel the light fading out, the flames that rise inside her engulfing her surroundings, and digs her nails into the cushion to hang on to reality.

The last image that registers in her mind, between the swirls of sea green, is the pained expression on Haymitch's face.

xXx


	16. Year Sixteen, June: Bubblegum Spring

**Disclaimer:** Just playing. Playing a lot, but just playing.

**A/N:** Right, then. Hello again. It's been a while, hasn't it? Sorry about that; I'm back now, with the longest chapter yet. To reviewers **LadyNobleSong, moonlight goose**, **The Curse of Normality**, and **Margaret Armstrong**: thank you very much for your responses. I now reward you with some virtual muffins. Enjoy. Also, I want to bring to your attention that the remaining chapters, excluding the epilogue, shall be longer than the ones before and thus may take longer. I apologize in advance for any wait this may cause. And now, my friends, on to the good part.

xXx

_Year Sixteen, Early June_

_Bubblegum Spring_

xXx

"So it's true." Éclair states, trying to rearrange her collection of needles and threads.

"Yes, I got drunk and told him everything." Effie says, voice flat and emotionless, but Éclair shakes her head.

"No. I mean that you think you're loosing your identity." Éclair explains, looking at Effie, who shrugs.

"What will I be wearing?" Effie questions, trying to change the subject. Éclair smiles brightly, but it doesn't entirely reach her eyes.

"I think," she says, "that I've had an idea. We need to change things up a bit, so you won't be wearing a dress."

"So I'll be... unclothed?" asks Effie, looking alarmed. Éclair laughs; it sounds superficial and forced.

"No, you'll be wearing a suit. What's your favorite colour?"

"Um… green. Why, may I ask?" Effie asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Bright green?" Éclair continues. Effie shrugs.

"Uh… sure. _Why_, though?" questions the younger woman, her curiosity piqued. Éclair smiles.

"The suit will be spring green, then, but your hair will be bubblegum pink. You know, so that you'll still look… Capitol-ish enough. It'll make for some sort of distraction. Since it's your favorite colour, you'll be able to hold on to something that is really _you_. Don't worry about the wig, it's not like you can see it anyway," Éclair says, but she doesn't sound very hopeful. Effie nods, looking somewhat unsure.

"Unless I look in a mirror. And then the whole image crumbles," she points out. Éclair hesitates, and then shrugs.

"Well, then avoid mirrors." They smile, and it's _almost_ genuine. Almost.

"So, bubblegum spring?"

"Yeah." They remain quiet for a while, Effie trying to take this all in.

"And what if it doesn't work? What if I loose myself completely? What if… I'm becoming one of them? I've been lying to myself for too long. I'm starting to believe it," Effie whispers, her tone urgent again. Éclair thinks for a few minutes, rewinds a spool of thread, and then responds.

"I don't think you'll _entirely_ change, if it's any comfort," she says at length, snapping the case shut. Effie looks unconvinced.

"How do you know?" she asks, and Éclair smiles.

"Because you asked. If you were truly, completely lost, you wouldn't be asking me about it. You're still, as a stylist would put it, on the other side of the colour wheel," says Éclair, and the two of them share a smile of relief.

xXx

"Haymitch," she hisses in his ear, "get off of me." He only laughs, giving her a sort of shake. She snarls and shoves him off, managing to send her wig skidding to the side.

"And now," announces an anxious Mayor Undersee, "it's time for the Reaping. Come on up, Effie Trinket."

She gives the Mayor an acknowledging nod and rises to the podium, her cheeks still flushed and her bright pink wig lopsided. Effie takes a deep breath, telling herself that once this torture is over, she'll have more than plenty of time to yell at Haymitch Abernathy.

"Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" She plasters a grin on her face and decides that she won't go on the whole 'honor-of-being-selected' tangent that she provides the District with each year. Instead, she calls out, "It's such an honor to be here. And now, time for the drawing. Ladies first!"

She walks to the glass bowl with the girls' names, trying to look like it's really an honor to be here, like she's loving this charade. Plunging her hand in, Effie fingers a few slips before finding one that she thinks (hopes) is a winner.

"Primrose Everdeen!" she calls out, searching for the person with such a delicate, fragile name. She almost knows that it's a twelve-year-old before she even lays eyes on her. A little blonde girl begins to walk towards the stage, looking terrified. Effie stares at her, utterly unable to speak or move.

And then, a loud voice seems to register. Effie blinks a few times; her eyes search frantically for the screamer. When she sees her, a sixteen-year-old with a dark plait of hair, she doesn't even think that the girls are related. They look nothing alike, but this older girl is shouting something over and over again as though her life depends on it. Suddenly, Effie understands. "I volunteer as tribute!"

She takes a deep, shaky breath, then nods. _Don't you dare do anything rash, Effie. Don't be moved by this. Keep going._ She finds herself talking, inviting the girl up to the stage, mentioning the actual protocol for volunteers, even though she's entirely forgotten it. The girl's name is Katniss Everdeen, and Effie suddenly sees why she was so desperate. _Don't cry, Effie. Just- don't. _"I bet my buttons that was your sister. Don't want her to steal all of the glory, do we?" she says, inwardly kicking herself for being so inhumane, but it's exactly what the Capitol wants, isn't it? "Let's have a big round o f applause for our very first volunteer!"

All is silent. Then, a little gaggle of old ladies near the back of the square hold up the three middle fingers of their right hands. A bunch of eighteens follow their example, and, soon, the entire square has united in this gesture of – _of rebellion_. The thought crosses Effie's mind, lingers for a brief moment, and vanishes, but the sense of fear that it created hangs on. As does the sense of harmony. She feels her breath catching in her throat, her feet frozen and not permitting her to cross over to the boys' names.

Suddenly, Haymitch appears in her peripheral vision, throwing his arm around Katniss, shouting something about spunk, pointing fingers at cameras, diving off the stage. Effie stands there, processing this turn of events, and taking the opportunity to take a few deep breaths, as the cameras are not on her. She thinks that she might be hallucinating – that, or going mad – but she swears that she sees him glance at her before he falls.

xXx

"Oh, come on, Gyana. It's not that bad," Flora says, rolling her eyes. "I mean, at least –"

"At least, what? At least they'll be comic relief? Flo, they _make_ electronics. The stylists put computers on their _heads_!" snaps Gyana, craning her neck to get a better look at the parading chariots, a view which is obscured by the yellow feather in the hair of the man in the next row.

"Well, mine are trees. Again," Flora retorts, fixing her skirt. Effie sighs and shushes them, gesturing at a faint glow in the distance.

"Oh, Effie, aren't those yours?" asks Flora, and Effie nods.

"Yeah, District Twelve," she says. She can just make out the flames that cover the bodies of the tributes. Effie glances up at the screens and sees Katniss' face, the entwinement of her hand and Peeta's, their flaming capes… District 12 dominates the screens. Effie ignores the gasping of the other escorts and turns in her seat. Her eyes lock on Cinna's and she mouths a silent 'thank you' to the stylist. He nods, and she grins. Cinna is the most talented stylist she's ever known, but this… this is something beyond 'talented.' It's phenomenal.

"Look at how they're holding hands! Isn't it charming?" simpers Gyana, clutching at a rose that she's holding.

"Yeah! They're such pearls!" calls Flora, sweeping her lemon-coloured bangs aside, and smiling.

"Come again?" asks Effie, confused. _Pearls? What?_

"Oh," Flora states matter-of-factly, "Don't you know? Coal turns into pearls if you put enough pressure on it." She smiles broadly. "Clever, right?" Effie nods absentmindedly.

"Where'd you hear that, Flo?" she asks, thinking it over. She distinctly remembers going to science class as a child and being told that pearls come from clams.

"It's from that nature program that's all the rage, now," Flora responds, then squeals and launches herself into the air in an attempt to catch one of Katniss' kisses.

The 'fact,' Effie decides, might be wrong, but if all of the Capitol thinks that it's true, then Katniss and Peeta can be advertised as pearls.

xXx

"But he said –"

"It's okay, we planned it, he's only –"

"But Katniss –"

"Doesn't know that, yes." Effie massages her temples, trying to make sense of the situation. _Okay, try to organize what you know, Effie. One: Peeta is not with the Careers. Two: he doesn't want Katniss dead. Three: he loves Katniss. Four: Katniss, injured and stuck in a tree surrounded by Careers, most of whom intend to watch her die, doesn't know this._

"Are you sure that she won't hurt Peeta?" she finally asks, causing Haymitch to shrug.

"Honestly, I don't know. I hope not. I'm positive she feels betrayed right now, and Katniss is a spur-of-the-moment-type person, but I don't think she'll harm him. Not when it would help that little sister of hers if he wins." Effie nods, hoping that this logic will hold true. They fall silent, watching the screen, which is showing some sort of recap of the day's events. Eventually, the show cuts back to Katniss still stuck in the tree. She looks down at the Careers, who are all fast asleep; Glimmer is tossing and turning, Clove is gripping a knife, and the others are just laying still. Katniss, on the other hand, appears unable to drift off.

Her face is drawn tight with pain, and gingerly prods the burn on her leg before jerking back. Effie shuts her eyes, unable to watch. Haymitch sighs beside her, and she opens one eye to look at him.

"She needs medicine." The terse statement could not be truer; even Katniss' breathing seems labored and painful.

"Well, what are we waiting for? We should go out there, try to –" _Try to _what_, Eff? _Haymitch spares her the need to answer.

"It would cost too much. We can try, but it'll be too late for her before we can get her enough money. I still need a lot; we'd half to find either someone _very_ rich or a donor willing to hand over the greater part of their life's savings. Know any of those, princess?"

"We've probably already got half of what we need."

"They won't let us send half a container, will they." It's not even a question. They both know that it would not be allowed.

When, later that evening, Haymitch opens the hallway door, he finds a large parcel of money in front of it.

When, even later that evening, as they watch Katniss apply medicine on-screen, he tells Effie of their anonymous benefactor, she doesn't find it difficult to act as though she didn't do it.

xXx

The light bounces off the glossy surface of the purple berries which rest, in the palms of Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark, the star-crossed lovers of District 12.

_(…"a long time ago, purple was a royal colour"…)_

"One." Effie stares, wide-eyed, at the two people. They can't do this. They can't… commit suicide, not now. Not when they've almost won. It's not to say that she wants one to kill the other; of course she doesn't. But the fact that that's the only other option has not sunk in to Effie's mind yet, only the fact that they are going to kill themselves.

"Two." She glances to Haymitch and reads fear in his grey eyes. They are going to die, whether now, by the purple fruit, or later, by the Capitol.

_( die /dī/: verb: – of a person, animal, or plant – to stop living)_

"Three." She closes her eyes, waits for the inevitable canons. But, instead, she hears a voice. Claudius Templesmith is shouting, frantic, announcing something to the two tributes – wait, no. Not tributes. Victors. They've won.

Her eyes fly open again, and she laughs out loud. _They've won, Eff! They've done it!_ She was wrong; they aren't going to die. For the moment, every emotion, every rational thought, is overridden by a glorious sensation: euphoria.

"They're coming home, Haymitch!" she cries, throwing her arms around him with a squeal. He nods, chuckling, and waits for two whole minutes before disentangling himself from her grasp and leaving for the hovercraft landing port.

xXx

"First, I give you… the prep teams!" Caesar's voice booms out, and the audience screams in delight. From backstage, Effie watches them bow, flash cocky grins to the audience, and giggle. She knows that her turn onstage is coming and tries to compose herself.

"This is what you've always waited for, isn't it, Eff? Your dream come true," she whispers to herself, but the mumbled words come across as false, wrong. Indeed, something is wrong. She can feel it in the air, in the voices of the people around her, in the over-all tension in the country. She smells trouble.

"Effie Trinket, escort-extraordinaire!" Caesar calls and she feels her legs moving, carrying her towards the platform's center. She stares out at the sea of colours, tries to find someone's eyes to focus on, to regain a steadiness that she's felt missing since the end of the 74th Annual Hunger Games. Her eyes meet a pair masked by pumpkin orange contacts, giving a creepy, garish look to the face of their owner, who has joined in the chants of _'Effie, Effie, Effie!'_

She takes and deep breath, taking in the scent of lies, tasting the texture of fear, and forces herself to smile.

xXx


	17. Year Sixteen, November: Pumpkin Orange

**Disclaimer: **No, I'm still just the melody of some discoloured citrus fruits, not to be confused with one of the best authoresses ever.

**A/N:** Welcome back. I now express my gratitude – in the form of virtual caramel apples – to **ZeDancingHobbit**, **NurseKelly**, **YOUCALLTHATaKISS**, **Margaret Armstrong**, **LadyNobleSong**,** moonlight goose**, and** Squint-1121** for their time and reviews. I am truly awed by the responses; thanks again, guys.

xXx

_Year Sixteen, Late November_

_Pumpkin Orange_

xXx

"You have got to be kidding me," mutters Éclair, the corners of her lips rising into a smile. "You honestly still haven't figured out why Haymitch was so drunk?"

"No, Éclair," answers Effie wearily. "I really don't know, so why don't you enlighten me?" Éclair grins.

"He did it for you," she says, and all Effie is capable of is gaping. "He knew that you were going to snap soon after you told him about your acting to protect him. He figured the whole volunteering thing might be too painful for you and tried to draw the attention away, so he nose-dived offstage. He succeeded very well, might I add." Éclair laughs. "Made a complete fool of himself, but it sure took the cameras away."

"I did perfectly fine handling the situation, thank you very much!" announces Effie, unable to keep the defensive edge from her voice. "And besides, why on earth would he do such a thing?"

"Because he cares about you," Éclair answers and Effie feels the heat rise in her cheeks.

"Aren't we supposed to be planning my Victory Tour clothing right now? You're supposed to ask me what colour I have in mind," says Effie, changing the subject.

"Okay, fine. What colour did you have in mind?" the stylist inquires, still grinning.

"Pumpkin orange," says Effie without hesitation, remembering the eyes of the audience member from this year's Victor's ceremony.

"Pumpkin orange. Effie, why _pumpkin orange_?" asks Éclair, raising her eyebrows. Effie shrugs.

"No clue," she mumbles, attempting to shake the image of those orange eyes from her head. Now, she wonders if they were actually contact lenses or if it was the person's natural eye colour. "It just popped into my head and I thought, _Wow, sounds like a nice colour_!"

"I don't believe that, but no matter," says Éclair, shaking her head. "What's wrong with you, Effie? It's not like you to be this way. You've succeeded in the short term, brought home two kids. You should be… more optimistic, I guess." They stand there, staring at one another.

"I don't know, 'Clair. You're right, but something feels… out of place. I don't know what, exactly, but there's definitely something… wrong," says Effie. "Since the end of the Games, it's been so… strange. Like something is being kept from the public. I'm not sure, but I think that all of us are in for a lot of trouble soon. Does that seem logical to you?" Effie asks the stylist, who shrugs.

"It's hard to say. I'm a lot more isolated from the rest of Panem than you are, but everything's possible. Even wearing pumpkin orange on a Victory Tour," she replies. Effie smiles.

xXx

"And thank you for all the bread," Katniss finishes, sweeping her eyes across the crowd below. The sunlight catches in her hair, illuminating the brown strands and staining them, however temporarily, gold.

"Stupid girl," Haymitch huffs under his breath, and Effie tears her eyes away from the screen to look at him.

"What was that?" she asks, eyes flashing. He shakes his head.

"I said, 'Beautiful,'" he says, looking hesitant and obviously lying. Effie rolls her eyes.

"That is not what you said. We're in District Eleven, Haymitch, and you ought to try to act civil," she tells him. Suddenly, a burst of static fills the air around them and she turns back to the screen in time to see the image vanish and be replaced by a field of gray lines and dots.

"What the..?" she stares at it, befuddled, when a strange _boom_ rings out. She whips around towards the direction of its origin.

"Gunfire," states Haymitch, his face grim. Cinna nods slightly.

"It certainly sounds that way," he says, green eyes searching the small piece of crowd that is visible through the window.

"Oh, I'm… sure that it was nothing. I mean, it's unlikely, right?" Effie says, biting her lower lip. No one answers.

Now, she is positive that something is very, very wrong.

xXx

He's slumped over, drunk, with his eyes focused on her face, but she's pretty sure that he's seeing more than one of her.

"What do you want?" he asks her, setting down a shot-glass with a dull thud. Amber-coloured liquid splashes out, staining the tablecloth. Effie sighs, hoping that President Snow's Avoxes won't mind too much.

"Dance with me," she whispers, and he looks very confused, as if trying to decipher the code that she's speaking in. "Dance. With. Me." He nods, takes her hand, and she manages to guide him out onto the wooden floor.

They slowly spin in a circle, with Effie supporting a significant portion of Haymitch's weight. A new song starts up, louder, and she takes the opportunity to lean close to his ear and whisper, "I don't know what's going on, Haymitch, but something's wrong. I can sense it."

"We can't talk about it," he hisses back and she raises her eyebrows.

"Why not?" she demands, trying to avoid the stares of the other dancers by doing some kind of pirouette. "I'll find out anyway."

"You go ahead and do that," he replies with a smirk. She rolls her eyes, knowing that the conversation is going nowhere.

"I'm serious," she huffs. A waltz begins and Effie manages to shuffle her feet slightly in order to look as though she is dancing.

"So am I. I can't tell you," he says, and she shrugs. "Anything else you wanted?" he adds, glancing longingly back to where his shot-glass is still standing. She decides that she won't get another opportunity to ask.

"Why were you so drunk at the Reaping this year?" she asks, tilting her head to one side. He shrugs, looking uncomfortable, and mumbles something under his breath. His expression makes her (for a few moments, anyway) forget about the bad feeling in the air.

xXx


	18. Year Eighteen: Mockingjay Gold

**Disclaimer:** I disclaim.

**A/N:** After two weeks of no updates… I am back. And very sorry for the wait. This chapter was a mammoth by my standards, so it took a while. Thank you to **LadyNobleSong**, **moonlight goose**, **Squint-1121**, and **Margaret Armstrong** for their kind reviews. On a side note, this is _not the end_. There is still an epilogue coming in a week or two, depending on when I can manage it. And now, enjoy.

xXx

_Year Seventeen_

_Mockingjay Gold_

xXx

It is raining, a fine mist of crystalline droplets, on the morning Effie goes to Éclair's workshop. The door is creakier than usual, and the wind chimes have fogged over from the soupy air. It is, in Éclair's opinion, a terrible day for the fabrics.

"Seriously," she announces upon Effie's arrival through the door, which shuts with an ear-splitting creak, "this weather is probably making the fibers curl." She laughs.

Effie smiles, running a hand through her pale brown frizz. "It's humid. I don't know about fabric, but my hair has a tendency to do that." She takes off her shoes, which are uncomfortably moist. "So, I heard there was a costume ready for me…" Éclair gets up and strides over to a large box which rests on one of the shelves.

"You heard right." She opens the lid with an overzealous dramatic flourish and tilts the box to show Effie its contents. "Voila."

"Éclair, why? It's… it's beautiful, but why?" Effie runs a hand over the shimmering fabric of the skirt.

"It's Mockingjay gold, Eff. Like Katniss' pin. It's lovely fabric, isn't it?" the stylist answers.

"Yes, it is. So… the point is to… um… make District 12 a team? Because… what if… they've been saying…" Effie trails off, unsure of how to finish, before adding, "Haven't you heard?" Éclair shrugs, trying to remain nonchalant.

"Heard what? Talk – tiny whispers, really – of defiance? Effie, they won't see anything, because we aren't trying to show them anything. Not like that black. You were trying to make a point that time, trying to show them, but we aren't, not now. We're just being, you know, a united District," she says. There's a pause, and then, "We aren't trying start a… _rebellion_, or something."

They stand in utter, heavy silence for a few moments. Then, tentatively, Effie reaches out, strokes the dress again. "What if..?" she whispers. "Éclair, your friend got killed doing something like this. Shouldn't you –"

Éclair's head jerks up, her eyes, glinting and almost dangerous, locking onto Effie's. "Shouldn't I know better?" she finishes in a sharp voice. "You tell me, Eff. Shouldn't I? You know, I've had years – decades, in fact – to think about what Atlas did. I used to be so _sure_ he was an idiot. But now… honestly, I'm not too sure."

Effie steps towards her. "Éclair –"

"He made his point. A terrible one, maybe, but he did, didn't he? I want to make mine. I won't say anything or show it, but I've got to get _my_ point across. If I don't, what did he die for? It'd be cowardly, wouldn't it, Effie? Not to do anything, however hidden it may be?" The edge to her tone is gone, reduce to a bitter weariness. The light in her eyes fades, quickly. "Show them teamwork, or love, or whatever it is you choose. Just… let me prove to myself that I'm not a coward." Her eyes slip away, back to the dress in the box. She shakes her head, slightly. "God, what the hell am I saying? I sound… so…" She trails off again.

"You're an artist, 'Clair, not a coward," Effie breathes in the stylist's direction, and Éclair nods, slowly, like a small child. The moment hangs in the charged air. Then: "So, Mockingjay gold. I like it. Now, is the wig ready yet?" Something sparks in Éclair's eyes, and that sense of life appears to return to the stylist.

And the day goes on.

xXx

She squeezes her eyes shut, as if the world can simply disappear. As if, in a few hours, she won't be up on that damn stage again, calling the names of the people she's grown to care about. As if –

God, she needs Éclair right now. Just to talk, to make sense of the spinning colour wheels in her head. But 'Clair's not here anymore. Not since – not since – since – oh, God –

She's told herself dozens of time that the turn was sharp, that the driver was drunk, that the night was dark and it was raining harder than it had in months, and, sometimes, when she's capable of rationalizing, she knows that the… the… the accident was exactly that: an accident. But a part of her – a part she keeps trying to bury deep under the rational layers of herself – is so sure, so damn _sure_ that _what if_ that truck was a machete-on-wheels.

_But why?_ asks her clear-thinking part. And it's right; why now, when she been such a good girl – brought home her two Victors, smiled bright and thought right?

It was instant. No pain – "No fuss, no muss," the mortuary-man had told her; she, somehow, had restrained herself from slapping him. Éclair hadn't felt anything, right?

Effie squeezes her eyes harder. As if it will stop the thoughts from coming. As if it will protect her from, when it's dark, pretending that she's standing right next to her stylist, from seeing the headlights, from hearing the engine, from feeling the rain on her skin, from trying to scream at Éclair to move, to run, to – to – as if – oh, God –

Her eyes fly open. Her thoughts grind to a screeching halt; her mental shield crumbles. And it hits her, with full force. Softly, she whispers, "She's dead. Éclair is dead, isn't she?" As if someone's going to answer.

Until now, she can only describe the sensation that she's been experiencing as 'hollow.' Effie doesn't remember much from the past few months, even though they've been some of her busiest; she's managed to effectively tune out every emotion that called for her attention. Until now, her thoughts haven't been sharp little things, fighting for attention; no, they've been round, clumsy, sluggishly roaming through her mind. Dull, but refusing to leave. Until now, she's squashed down her sorrow at losing Éclair, her outrage at the Quarter Quell, and her fear of the impending Reaping.

And now that the event has rolled around, she isn't hollow anymore. She's lost and aching, because Éclair is _dead_, and she finds herself moving like a rusty marionette on the stage. Struck with grief, the only three things that she remembers vividly are small, silly details, really, but they imprint themselves into her mind.

The first is the way Katniss' name sounds as it rolls off her tongue. It sounds so oiled, so clipped, so _changed_ and _affected_ that she hates it, because it sounds so wrong. The Capitol accent has a habit of butchering otherwise nice-sounding names, and it annoys Effie.

Then comes the feeling of manicured, gold nails scraping the bottom of the glass bowls. Searching, searching, searching, trying to decide between two papers. _Just slips of paper which someone has written names on, and nothing more…_

The last thing that she remembers is the way that the corner of Haymitch's slip is bent onto itself, ever-so-slightly imperfect. Her breath hitches in her throat, because it's so… real. Not fabricated, rigged, by the government. Just natural. The crease was never meant to be there, just like Effie Trinket was never meant to read _this_ name into the microphone on the stage of District Twelve.

xXx

_Mockingjay._ Katniss, still smoldering, looks around, searching the audience. _Mockingjay._ The bride on fire is now the bird on fire; just an uncanny ordering of letters, and yet so different. Effie glances at Cinna; and he catches her eye, nodding, and she sees a hint of something odd in his expression. Fear? Pride? Certainly, he has reason for both.

When people finally start to settle down, she hears whispers of 'oh, that's all' and 'this isn't awfully entertaining' and thinks that the evening isn't over yet. In fact, she is not surprised when Peeta's words echo through the City Circle: "If it weren't for the baby."

The first reaction is silence. Nothing, no noise, no breathing, no whispers or laughs or screams. Just shocked silence which infests every corner of the place, every bleacher, every street of the Capitol. Silence.

No one knows exactly who understands first. No one knows who starts the shrieking, the shouting, the sobs… a cacophony of distress fills the air, cutting through the once-silent night air. The words 'complete pandemonium' pop into Effie's mind, and she knows that it is the one way to describe the situation.

People – security, maybe? – appear on the scene, ushering people out from the place, but not fast enough. Everyone has enough time to see what is happening onstage, to see the Victors join hands…

"Effie, Haymitch is going to find Katniss and Peeta. We're supposed to go home," Cinna's voice whispers in her ear. She nods and turns to face him.

"The dress, Cinna, it was beautiful, but you must know –" Effie begins, but Cinna cuts her off with a shake of his head.

"Not now," he tells her quietly, and she understands. "Come on, let's get out of here." They slowly begin to move through the crowd, but the streets can only hold so many people. The flow of human beings has clotted at the exits, giving everyone the opportunity to see Peacekeepers ushering the Victor-tributes offstage, and Effie finds herself whispering a final good-bye to Katniss and Peeta, the mockingjay-girl and baker-boy. She doubts that she will ever see them in person again.

xXx

It is silent, an empty sort of silence, hollow and sad. She leans back against the wall of the velvety hallway, fingers the doorknob of the entrance to her apartment. In her mind, she replays the events of the evening, the ones that will never again be broadcast on television. Brides, birds, babies, bakers, handholds, rebellions… she does not know what to make of it all.

"Effie?" Haymitch's voice comes from behind her and she turns around. He's standing there, looking weary, tired, and worn.

"Yes?" she asks. He smiles slightly, but the smile reminds her of her stylist's; the emotion does not reach his eyes.

"Katniss and Peeta send their thanks," he says, and she feels tears threatening to spill forth. _Katniss and Peeta, the star-crossed lover of District 12, sentenced to die a second time… _

"The Reaping… was so… hard. I shouldn't have… never supposed to… call your name…" she trails off. "And Katniss', of course," she adds quickly.

"Yeah, I noticed that you weren't nearly as bright as usual," he says, but the usual tone of sarcasm is gone from his voice, replaced by something more akin to resignation.

She nods and tries to smile.

xXx

She isn't the one to recognize it. In fact, that's Flora Goldenight. She snatches Effie's forearm and points with a bright pink fingernail at the on-screen Finnick Odair.

"Isn't that, like, the bangle that Haymitch was wearing earlier?" Flora asks her, who glances at the young man's wrist. Immediately, Effie knows that it _is_ the one that her District's mentor was wearing – the one that _she'd_ gotten for him! She shrugs nonchalantly at Flora.

"Um, it kind of looks like it, but I'm sure that there's, uh, plenty more where Haymitch's came from. Finnick probably got his from the, um, same store." Effie's eyes scan the room, looking for the mentor in question. He's standing by the District 12 control console, talking to the Head Gamemaker. For one brief instant, he looks up and their eyes lock, a frantic conversation of irises.

"Oh, 'kay then. You, like, alright?" Flora asks, looking at Effie, who doesn't even glance her way.

"Oh, yeah. Absolutely, Flo," Effie responds without taking her eyes off Haymitch. "I've, um, got to go. See you." Calmly, she walks over to Haymitch, weaving through a crowd of Games Makers. She nods politely at Heavensbee, mumbles something about a District Team Meeting, grabs Haymitch's wrist a bit too tightly, and leads him out of the Control Room. She doesn't even try speaking to him until they're in a janitor's closet a dozen or so rooms from the main section of the complex. She slams the door behind them before hissing, "What the hell?"

Haymitch blinks. "What are you talking about?" She rolls her eyes.

"You know what I'm talking about. Why is Finnick Odair, of all people, wearing your bracelet?" she asks him. He shrugs.

"No clue, princess. Maybe he bought one, too," he says, staring into the depths of his alcohol glass, which he's still clutching in his hand.

"No, he didn't. Éclair –" her voice cracks and she has to take a deep breath before continuing. "She had it specially made. I know it's the same one, so I believe an explanation is in order."

"Effie. Really, I've no idea. Even if I did –" She cuts him off and finishes his sentence.

"You wouldn't tell me." He doesn't deny it. "What's going on? Haymitch, unless you're planning to convince me that it was a gift of your undying love for Finnick –" He does a spit-take and she's forced to stop speaking and to quite literally take the glass away from him. When he's regained the ability to breathe, she continues. "Okay, then tell me why I'm seeing your bangle on-screen."

"It's… complicated," he offers, and she nods. "Something's… going to happen in these Games," Haymitch continues. "Anyway, the ending won't be quite the same. And no, before you ask, Katniss and Peeta don't know about it."

"You're being vague."

"I'm sorry; I'm not supposed to tell you any –"

"I don't care what you're supposed to tell me, I'm sick of not knowing anything!" She realizes that she's nearly yelling, and clamps her hand over her mouth. They stand in silence for a few moments.

"Okay. Let's start over. When something starts happening, get the hell out of here," he says, looking her in the eyes.

"Out of where? This closet? The building?" She hasn't caught on to the severity of his statement yet.

"No, the Capitol."

She sucks in a breath. "You can't be serious. Where would I go?" He shrugs, clearly not having thought much about that aspect.

"Away. Effie, I – I don't want you to get hurt, and, believe me, you _will_ get hurt if you stay." There's a pause, a beat, an undefined moment.

"Right. Let's suppose I – somehow – get out of here. What's going to –?" He doesn't let her finish.

"I can't tell you," he says. Angrily, she brushes a stray curl out of her eyes.

"So we're what, back to square one? Let's not tell the escort anything, because she obviously isn't capable of–"

"No."

She stops, closes her eyes for a moment, calms herself down. Opens them. "If they catch you, question you – it's safer not to know anything," he says.

She starts to open her mouth to protest, then thinks the better of it and says instead, "Still, why do you care?"

He smiles. It's so slight, she might have imagined it; just a twitch, and then it's gone. But she knows that it was there, across his lips like a little ghost. "Because…" he starts, his voice hardly even a whisper as he reaches out to clasp her hand in his. He doesn't have to finish. Instead, he gently kisses her, running his fingers through her hair.

And she knows that she isn't alone on her side of that terrible – _beautiful_ – colour wheel.


	19. Epilogue: Year One, Take Two: Warm Grey

**Disclaimer:** I'm still disclaiming.

**A/N:** Let's keep our usual routine, shall we? I would like to thank **YOUCALLTHATaKIS5**, **moonlight goose**, **allonsysilvertongue**, **LadyNobleSong**, **stei**, **Aureleis**,** Miss Yvonne Hartman**, and **Kitty** for their time and reviews with virtual cookies – I'm being traditional today. I would also like to apologize for getting off schedule: life occurred. But now I'm back – for, incidentally, the story's grand finale.

This is the end. It is not at all how I thought it would be when I began to write it in mid-April, which may well be for the better. I hope you've enjoyed this as much as I have, if that is even possible.

I don't really know what I'm going to do with myself, now, but I have some plans for stories that won't be in this fandom. So, for now, good-bye, and may the odds be ever in your favor.

xXx

_Year One, Take Two_

_Warm Grey_

_[Epilogue]_

xXx

In the afternoons, she paints, though she doesn't like to call it that. What Peeta does, as she often tells Haymitch, is painting; what she does can hardly be classified as art. Just smears of colour on a canvas, not an image, and not a picture. Colour that, as she's forced to remind herself, she cannot see. Not since – no, she won't think about it.

In all honesty, she didn't really bother listening to the med report, nor did she take the time to look up any of the terms they threw at her. She'd had greater concerns than acquired, drug-induced monochromatic vision, or whateverthey'd called it, at that point. It was just, as the doctor had informed her, a rare side-effect of one of the numerous drugs used for substance-based interrogation. _Substance-based interrogation_. That had been, at the very least, a very blunt way to explain what they'd done to her. Compared to the pain, if not death, the others had experienced, the silly little side effect was nothing, right?

And now, here she is, reduced to reading labels of paint bottles to find their hues. Trying to guess if 'Icicle Blue' or 'Deep-Sea Green' will be more of use to her in showing her perception of Éclair's wind chimes, dripping with rain-water. That's all her paintings –just dots and lines and unrecognizable shapes, really – are: perceptions of things she remembers. Of colours she'll never see again. Of thoughts that elbow each other for room in her head.

She paints, the fine hairs of her brush (in her eyes, a middle grey: dark, but definitely not black) tickling the canvas, until the light starts to change. It's probably turning golden, but she can't be sure.

xXx

In the evenings, she walks across the green to his house to prepare dinner. She doesn't dress up; it's no special occasion, and she hasn't got Éclair anymore to help her. She knocks on his front door: three short hits, one long, then three short and one long, finishing with four more short smacks. He doesn't understand Morse code, but he knows it's her.

She always cooks, ever since the incident that is 'never to be mentioned again, or else'. She fills the house with scents and the clattering of pans, trying to cover up the silence; the quiet somehow sounds like a cold, dull grey to her, and she's had more than enough of that, anyway. She tries out different recipes until she has them down to perfection. Already, her biscuits don't come out burnt and her cookies aren't singed (how is she supposed to know when they're 'tinged golden'?).

They talk a little as they eat. She brings up her paintings, which are somehow passing for high-end symbolism in the Capitol. He smiles, tells her stories about the geese that have somehow decided to take up residence in his yard. It's nothing important, really, just small talk. Small talk that reminds them they survived.

She looks at his eyes a lot. She likes their colour – no, not colour, _shade_; she doesn't see colour, pretends she never could. They're grey, an always have been, but they aren't cold, frigid grey. Somehow, they feel warm, like twin grey suns. He catches her looking, and doesn't mind a bit, but she drops her own eyes in embarrassment, feeling a warm blush spread over her cheeks.

They finish dinner as the sun sinks low over the horizon. Most days, she also stays for tea. Only rarely does she spend the night at her own place across the green.

xXx

In the late hours of the night, just before midnight of the nights she goes home, she starts to see. It's bizarre, a strange clash of images that is never the same. Big, sharp, and clunky. And, most horribly, colourful. Just because she can't see colours in her waking life doesn't mean she's forgotten how they look.

Sometimes, it's a flash of scarlet, a bloodied corpse with glassed-over eyes that a man in white drags by her cell. On other occasions, it's the orange-eyed man in the audience on that night after the Games. A burst of yellow – the icing on a lemon pastry, fresh from her grandmum's oven – easily gives way to the panicked sea-green eyes of Annie Cresta. An artificial blue sky beckons the glint of a vial containing a violet chemical – _substance-based interrogation_.

She knows it's awful – ridiculous, really. She hates them, despises them, wants to shut the dreams out, but, when she wakes and looks around her unchanged, grey room, she misses them. On those nights, as she sinks into sleep, terrified of the spectacle to come, she finds herself _hoping _to see the colours again, no matter how horrid, how revolting, their format. It is why she comes home – her room is the place where the colours live.

She longs to nightmare.

xXx

In the mornings, when she stays at Haymitch's, he wakes her up just before the dawn with a soft whisper of her name. She sits up, asks him for the time. He tells her that it's nearly sunrise, and she doesn't ask further.

When they get out of the house, the wayfaring geese flock around them, honking and probably hoping for breadcrumbs. Their feathers shine a little in the early light.

A slow breeze ruffles the grass, the goose feathers, her hair. The clouds relay-race across the sky, running away from the sun, which begins to peek out from over the tops of the forest-trees. Shadows dance across the yard; the youngest of the geese honk at them, suspicious.

She finds it odd that her life, once so bent on the concept of constant change, has fallen into such a set routine. There is no rush out here, no hurry, no race for the unattainable goal. The rat race has been put in perspective for her; it seems so trivial, now. Here, with him, in what was once a Victor's Village, between the forest and the sky and the geese, she finds peace.

Together, they watch the warm grey sunrise.

xXx


End file.
